Home is Where They Catch You When You Fall
by kaydi
Summary: Racetrack is offered a chance to be something when his wealthy uncle finally tracks him down. But he soon discovers that there is something missing from the so-called “ fine life”, something he so desperately needs.
1. Rosie?

**_Here it is! New story! Took me long enough, sorry. I mean, between AP testing and my concert, I had enough to do last week. I did not need the major brainstorm that I got, when twenty ideas popped into my head! Oh well, now I have some free time till Thursday and then it's off to Toronto! Yes! Wish us luck! My choir is competing in a singing competition! Yay! _**

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**After the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box.- Italian Proverb**__

_            It is strange how quickly your life can change. How in one second, everything you have built up, your whole world can come crashing down. How, in the space of a single heartbeat, your life will never be the same. _

_            These instances often come when a decision is made. Some process of thinking and choosing one idea or another. Some times, it is something big, something you saw a mile away and thought long and hard about. Sometimes it is something you don't even think about, returning a smile, or taking a new way home, something so small and insignificant you would never know that it could have life altering consequences. These are the ones that often spring before you even knew they were there. _

_            This is a story about choices. About choosing between that which makes you comfortable, and that which makes you loved. To be presented with two options, both with their virtues and their vices. Both fulfilling some aspect of necessity. And in choosing, we say something about ourselves, something about who we really are and what we hold closest to our hearts. _

_            What would you do if someone offered you everything you had ever wanted? What if suddenly, every wish was granted? But what if you had to lie, to your friends, your loved ones, to yourself? If you had to hide who you really were? Ask yourself; is it worth it? _

            The morning Racetrack Higgins's life changed dawned like any other. The sun burned into the room full of sleeping boys as the old landlord, Kloppman entered and shook his head, proceeding to make his rounds and poke each boy awake with the broom in his hand. 

            Race awoke and promptly tumbled to the floor, much to the amusement of the other boys. But he only grumbled and got to his feet, stumbling into the washroom and getting himself cleaned up. 

            He walked down the streets, feeling much better in the early sun as his best friends run beside him. Jack Kelly grabbed his hat off his head and tossed it to Kid Blink who tossed it to Mush who threw it back to Jack. This game continued until they reached the distribution station and ran smack into David Jacobs, who was waiting for them with his younger brother Les.  

            "Do you guys have to do that every morning?" he complained good naturedly as he handed Race back his hat.

            "A co'rse, Davy!" Jack said, laughing as Race tackled Mush. The bell rang and the newsies hurried into the station. 

            When Race's turn came, he slapped down several coins and grinned at the manger, "A hundred." The boys laughed as the tight wad named Weasel handed him his papes. 

            As they made their way out into the square, Race hurried to catch up with Jack. "Hey, cowboy. I'se gonna see Rosie taday, wanna come?" Jack grinned. 

            "So dat's why ya bought so many!" he laughed, understanding something beyond David's reach. " Surah, ya mind Dave?" David looked at Race, who was beaming, his hundred papes under his arms. Les nodded franticly, knowing that any place would be an adventure when with two of the best newsies in New York. 

            "Who's Rosie?" he asked. Jack laughed again and grabbed his arm, dragging him down the street after Race. Soon after Race and Jack decided to play a game of keep-away with David's cap, and the game lasted until they reached a large brick building quite a ways uptown. 

            "Manhattan Home For Orphan Girls." David read the sign hanging above it. The building was a normal brownstone, though a bit larger than the others. It's thick granite slabs were a dark brown in color, the windows dark, giving it an impression of a place not meant for children, but Race hurried up the steps and pushed open the door. 

            Once inside, the noise was intense. David had only heard it reviled in the lodging house on a rainy night. Shouting and the yells of children at play echoed through the house, though there was no one in the first front room they came to.  Only a desk and a few chairs. 

            But Race grabbed a long rope that hung from the ceiling and pulled, a ringing echoed through the house. Not a second later, a tall thin woman with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun hurried through a door on their left. 

            She frowned when she saw them, but her face instantly lightened when her eyes fell on Racetrack. 

            "Anthony!" she cried and pulled the boy into a hug. Race sighed and let her hug him. When she pulled back, she smiled at him. "Why, we haven't seen you in ages! I'd about given you up for dead." 

            "Nah, I jist had some tings ta take cae a." he said. "So how's Rosie? Ya mind if I take her?" the woman smiled and shook her head. 

            "Of course not. She 's been dying to see you." The woman vanished the way she had come and the boys were left alone. 

             "Anthony?" David asked, eyeing Race with a skeptical raised eyebrow. Race shrugged. 

            "Yeah, so?" But before he could answer, a small blur of red and yellow flew through the open door and attached herself to Race. He laughed as the chattering, wiggling child latched herself around his waist. She was gabbing away in some language, though David couldn't understand it. It took him a moment, but he soon realized he had heard it before. When Race was angry, he often swore in his old language. It was during the times when Race was too angry or worried to remember English, that David heard the words pouring out of his mouth. This was the language that was now streaming from the tiny girls mouth. 

            Race laughed and pulled her arms from around his waist. He knelt down and pulled the little girl into a tight hug. David caught sight of her bright red hair as she jumped and down in the older boy's arms. Them, when he released her, she sprung at Jack, who laughed and scooped her up. 

            "Hey, Rosie!" 

            "Jack! Where ya been? I ain't seen ya foeva!" 

            "Now, Roisin, what did I tell you about using the word aint?" the woman said. 

            "But dat's da way Tony talks!" the child protested from Jack's arms. Race smiled and took the child. 

"Your brother may speak like that." The woman replied, trying to hide a smile. "But he is not going to be a young lady, and I will not have my young ladies speaking like that. Now, do not forget your th's." 

Race laughed as the girl muttered something in that other language. And then, he took her hand and led her out the door. 

"Have her back by dark!" the woman called after them, but David doubted Race heard. As they hurried into the street, he jogged to catch up to Jack and Race who were swinging the girl between them. The girl looked up at him, and stared at him with large dark brown eyes. He had seen those eyes before. But where? 

"So this is Rosie?" he asked. Race nodded. 

"Roisin, I'd like ya ta meet Davy and his li'l brudda Les, dey's our friends. Davy, meet Rosie." That was all he offered, but Davy smiled at her. She grinned back. 

            "I lost a toot!" she told him, showing him the empty space between her front teeth. Race laughed. 

            "Surah, ya tell him! Whudda bout me?" he planted a mock pout on his face and she gave him a hug. 

            "I wus jist gonna, " the child replied with a look of comfort on her face. She planted a kiss on Race's cheek and he smiled again. 

            It wasn't long before they found themselves at the entrance to Central Park. Jack looked around as Race placed Rosie on the ground and handed her several papes. 

            "Hey, Race, ya mind if we sell down da path a bit?" Race shook his head as he held up the pape and began to shout the headlines, the girl instantly taking her place at his side, yanking her hair out of the neat braids so it looked hastily done and disarrayed. The look on her face turned from smiling and happy to pitiful, her eyes full of tears, in a matter of a few seconds. Davy noticed even Race's stature had changed. His tall shoulders were slumped, and his voice held a roughness as he called the headlines. 

            "Are they alright?" Jack glanced back and laughed. 

            "A coi'se!" he said, dragging David down the path. "Dey's jist selling' da papes. It's called drawin' pity." Then he dragged Davy and Les down the path, calling out the headlines as he went. 

            The sun was blazing overhead by the time they'd finished, and Davy swallowed, longing for a nice cool glass of sarsaparilla. But Jack seemed unhurried as they made their way back to the gate. 

            Race was waiting for them, smoking a cigar he had not had that morning and had probably been lifted from someone's back pocket. The girl, Rosie was a little ways off, skipping rope. 

            "Hey Jack!" she called, skipping over to them. "I'se hungry!" Jack laughed and scooped her up. 

            "Well den, why don't we'se go and get sumdin from da venda?" he asked, "Want sumdin?" he asked Davy and Race. They shook their heads and Jack led the two smaller children off. 

            "Selling good?" Davy asked Race, as he sat down. Race nodded, grinning. 

            "Always is when I got da kid wid me." he said, puffing on his cigar and rolling up his sleeves. 

            "Who is she?" Davy asked. "She looks kind of familiar." Race glanced at him, as if debating something. Then he sighed. 

            "I ain't surprised. She's me sista." Davy turned slowly and stared at Race. The boy took another long drag of his cigar as he ignored Davy's stare. 

            "Your sister? But how?" Race grinned at him.     

            "If ya don't know, I ain't tellin' ya." Davy sighed and rolled his eyes. 

            "I meant, that she looks nothing like you." He paused to stare at Race, looking for similarities. Then he found a big one. "Except for the eyes. You have the same eyes." 

            Those eyes turned on him now, glaring at him. "But why does she live there? I mean, why not with you? Or with your parents?" 

            Race's glare had turned deadly now. His dark brown eyes were narrowed and dangerous. David realized too late that he had asked the wrong question. Mentally, he smacked himself. Most of the boy's pasts were a closed book, closed and locked, burned if possible. Race was no exception. He lowered his head. 

            "Sorry." Race said nothing, but shifted his gaze towards the vendor as Jack tried to juggle two small jumping children and order something for himself as well as count the small pile of coins in his hand. David watched them too, wondering if he should go help Jack. 

            "It's safa." He turned to look at Race. He was looking back at him, the fire gone from his eyes. 

            "What?" Race rolled his eyes. 

            "Ya asked me why she ain't livin' in da lodgin' house." He said, grinning as if David had just asked him what was a pape. "It's safa. She don't' gotta get up and sell in da morning. I ain't gotta worry bout her.  I know she's got a bed ta sleep in, a warm meal, friends, I ain't gotta worry much. I ain't gotta look out foah her all da time, jist meself." David nodded, it seemed simple enough. But he noticed Race had not answered the question about his parents and he left it alone. Better to know a little and let them decide when to tell you the rest. 

            He remembered the night after the strike, only three days ago, Jack had taken him on the roof and told him everything, and from the first time he'd seen the plains of Santa Fe on his grandfather's ranch, to his mother's death. Come to think of it, he had mentioned Race. He had mentioned being friends with Race before becoming a newsie, back when his mother had been alive. That meant that at one time, Race had had a mother, a father, a home. David wondered what had happened. 

            Rosie ran up to Race and tackled him, grabbing for the cigar in his mouth. "Missus O'Hara says dose tings stunt yer growt." She said. Race laughed and held it out of her reach. 

            "Don't matta, I'se still bigga den youse." He said, laughing. Davy wondered, as he watched the two, if what Jack had said once was true. You can try to escape your past, but it always catches up with  you, no matter how fast you run. He was about to find out. 


	2. A Family?

            Here it is! This part is really long, almost 11 pages! But I couldn't find a good place to split it up, so you guys get a lot! Oh well, it's just as well, since I won't be uploading for a couple of days. Gonna be in Toronto! Yes, we're leaving at 4:30 tomorrow morning to get there. Long drive, almost 11 hours! Well, I gtg! Read and review, and wish me luck! 

            That night, Race brought Rosie back to the lodging house. He noticed that David seemed surprised that everyone knew her. As soon as she ran in the door, Kloppman scoped her up into a tight hug. Mush and Blink took their turns tossing her into the air. She tackled Snipes and Boots, and they laughed. But soon things settled down as Mush invited Race to the poker game already going on.  Rosie settled herself onto Race's lap half way through the game and proceeded to tell him which cards to keep. David was sure that Race would loose, but Rosie seemed to have the same knack for gambling as her brother as they still won. 

            Race didn't notice the tall man in the dark coat, warm for the summer, standing in the door. Kloppman did and quickly approached him. As soon as the boys saw the old man move, they saw the thin man with pale skin and dark hair. 

            "May I help ya?" Kloppman asked. The man nodded. 

            "Yes, my name is Nunzio Sciortino." Race noticed the man's thick accent. So familiar, so alien. He hadn't heard it in years; it made him think of things better left forgotten. "  I work for a wealthy banker named Alfonso Cammarata. I come by his orders to seek a boy named Anthony Higgins." 

            Race's breath caught in his throat. The cards in his hands were shaking, as he held tight to Rosie and slumped down, trying to hide behind Mush. He noticed several discreet glances in his direction. Jack glanced at him, a question in his eyes. Race gave one slight shake of his head and Jack stood up. 

            "Anybody knew dis Anthony Higgins?" there was a murmur of negative replies and a shaking of heads through out the lobby. The man frowned. 

            " I know this boy is here. I have proof." And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. It was a photograph, the article that had been written about them, not a week ago, the photograph of a triumphant group of newsies, crowding together, only just able to construct some sort of pose in time for the burst of the camera. The center boy was the only one who was ready, and smiled. Next to him, a smaller darker boy stood, a dark cabby hat on his head. It was this boy he showed Kloppman. 

            "Look, he ain't heah. We ain't neva hoid a him. So why doncha scram before we haveta help ya find da dooah." Jack said, snatching the article out of his hands. 

            "I know that these boys knew him. In fact," his dark eyes scanned the room. Race leaned back farther, hiding completely behind Mush and Blink who moved closer to hide him. But it did not work.  He could feel the man's blank eyes settle on him and he stepped forward. 

            He moved closer to Race, pausing right in front of him. Race shoved Rosie quickly behind his back. The man motioned for Race to come forward, and Blink stepped in front of him, glaring down the man. 

            The man sighed and began to speak, the words flowing over his mouth and into Race's ears, the welcome sound of Italian, "È venire lungo Anthony, se tu insiste sull'essere difficile, posso portare sempre la polizia. Sono sicuro che tu ciò non vuole. _(Come along Anthony, if you insist on being difficult, I can always call the police. I am sure you do not want that.)_

            Race frowned, then stepped forward. "Race!" Blink hissed, moving to push him back. Race inclined his head to the young girl behind him. 

            "Watch her." He whispered to his friend. Blink nodded. 

            "And the girl." Race's head shot up and he glared at the man. "I am under orders to speak to the Higgins children. She is your sister, is she not?" Race nodded slowly. "Then I will speak with her as well."

            Race sighed; it couldn't hurt to hear, could it? "Fine, whadda ya want?" the man looked around at the crowded room of boys. 

            "Is there somewhere we could go to talk privately?" Race glanced at Klopmman and he nodded. Race took Rosie's hand and led her down the hall to the small side room that held Kloppman's sitting room. Jack followed the man and closed the door behind him. The man looked at Jack disgustedly. 

            "I wished to speak to Anthony alone. No one else." Race shook his head. 

            "Ya say whatcha came ta say in front of Jack, or ya don't say nuttin." 

            The man sighed. "I doubt your Uncle wished for you to hear this in front of some Irish boy who thinks himself better than his superiors." Jack growled. 

            "Jist get on wid it." Race said, waving his head. 

            "Fine, fine. First of all, I am to inform you that your Uncle, my employer, wishes to extend an invitation to you and your sister, the only children of his dear departed sister, to come and live with him uptown." 

            Race shook his head. "We aint' got no Uncle. I ain't got no family." The man laughed as if Race had made a joke. 

            "Of course you do. His name is Alfonso Cammarata and he has only just recently returned from a business trip to Europe. One week ago, he saw that picture in the paper and noticed your extreme likeness to his dear departed sister. He read your name and ordered me to find out more about you." 

            "Well, look ya got da wrong kid, I ain't-" The man interrupted by pulling a sheet of paper out of his pocket and began to read off of it. 

            "Your mother was Maria Cammarata. Your father Owen Higgins. They married on June 10, 1883. Children: Anthony Devin Higgins, born October 19, 1883, aged sixteen. Roisin Caprice Higgins, born May 10, 1893. Owen, missing around June 16, 1893. Maria deceased, March 2, 1894." He folded the list and replaced it in his pocket. 

            "I do hope that helps convince you." Race stared at him. He had never known that somewhere there was a document that had his whole history on it, that told his whole story. To tell the truth, it scared him a bit. He hardly recalled all of it himself. In fact, he had completely forgotten that his own middle name was Devin. 

            "Dat don't meant nuttin." He said, forcing his sarcastic cynical side to the front, refusing to let this man see him scared. 

            "It would mean a great deal to your Uncle if you could come and stay with him. He has two children of his own, you know." 

            Race stared at him, his eyebrow raised. The man shifted nervously and cleared his throat. "Well, perhaps you didn't, but I must insist that you accompany me back to your Uncle's home, the both of you." Race frowned. 

            "I'll tink about it." 

            "Race," Jack spoke up, speaking for the first time. Race glanced at him.

            "Wouldcha mind leavin' us for a second?" Jack asked the man. He shrugged and trudged out the door. As soon as the door closed, Jack frowned at Race. 

            "So whudda tink?" he asked. 

            Jack shrugged. "I dunno. Seems legit ta me. Is all dat stuff true, da names and da dates?" Race nodded. 

            "But I dunno, Jack. It ain't normal, is it? I mean, I'se jist a street rat, a newsie, a nobody. Why would somebody wanna take me in?" 

            "Maybe he feels sorry fer yer ma? Maybe he wants ta do sumdin right by her, ya know?" Race shrugged. 

            " And I ain't nobody's charity case. "Race said sharply. Then he sighed, "But it would mean leavin'. I don't wanna leave. Dis is me home." He waved his hand around. Jack took a deep breath. 

            He did not want to loose his best friend. That's what Race was. They had been best friends since they were four years old, when Race had first come to America; they had been through so much, loosing their mothers in the same terrible accident. As his friend, Jack never wanted Race to leave. 

            But as Jack Kelly, he was also Race's leader. And as his leader, he wanted the best for all his boys. He knew they couldn't be newsies forever and this just might be Race's ticket out of the streets and into the better life. Chances like this did not roll around everyday, Race himself could tell you odds on that. 

            Jack was torn. As his friend, he had to refuse, but as his leader, he had to insist. 

            "I tink ya should go."  He said, pushing the leader up front, ignoring the pains that shot through his chest at the hurt look on Race's face.             

            "Go?" he asked. "Why?" Jack sighed. 

            "Cus Race, dis don't happen everyday. Ya could get a warm bed, a nice meal every day, ya wouldn't haveta sell, or ta gamble. Ya could go ta school, maybe loin ta write and read betta. And Rosie, tink about her." 

            Race glanced at the girl who had not spoken a word.  He knelt in front of her, taking a deep breath. 

            "Whudda tink Rosie? Ya wanna go?" she frowned. 

            "Will I get lotsa pretty dresses? And toys like Susie gots?" Race nodded, swallowing hard. "Maybe, if I still gets ta come back and see Jacky."  Race smiled at her. 

            "I promise, ya can always see Jack." Then she nodded. 

            "I don't wantcha ta have ta sell no moa, Tony. It ain't good fer ya." Race smiled, picking her up. 

            "Since when da youse know what's good foah me oah not?" he asked.  She giggled. Then he sighed. 

            "I suppose we should tell him." Jack nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. After all, it wasn't like he was dying. Just moving. 

            They opened the door and Race stepped out. To his surprise, the lobby was empty of everyone but the man and Kloppman. 

            "Where'd everybody go?" Jack asked. Kloppman pointed upstairs. Race approached the man and sighed. 

            "Fine, we'll go. But if we don't like it, we'se comin' straight back heah." The man nodded. 

            "Alright, go and gather your things. We can have the girls sent over in the morning. Where does she live?" 

            "Manhattan Home Foah Orphan Goils." Race said, trudging up the stairs slowly. Jack followed him. 

            The chatter died instantly when they entered. All the boys watched as Race made his way over to his bunk and slowly began to pull things out from under his mattress. He stuffed them into his pillowcase and slung it over his shoulder. 

            "Ya leavin', Race?" Mush asked. Race resisted the urge to look at Mush's puppy eyes. He nodded. 

            "Yeah, it's bedda foah Rosie. I mean, she, I, " words failed him as Blink pulled him into a tight hug, Mush joining him a second later.  Soon the others joined and Race found it hard to blink away the tears. 

            "But it ain't like I'se leavin' fer good, ain't like I'll neva see youse. I'll come back, I swea." He stammered. " I, we'se, I promise." His friend nodded, too overcome, too confused to truly say goodbye. 

            Race took a deep breath and made his way out the door, forcing himself to keep going and ignore the tiny voice in his head that screamed at him to go back. 

            Once in the lobby, he thanked Kloppman, giving the man a sudden and warm embrace. The old man seemed a bit surprised, but he returned it, patting Race on the back. 

            He took Rosie by the hand, and shared one long look with Jack. Then, slowly, they trudged out the door and down to the waiting carriage.

            Race climbed in and couldn't help back gaze around. It was the first time he'd ever ridden inside a carriage instead of the back of one. 

            The ride uptown took less than fifteen minutes, at least a half hour walk for him. They passed Central Park and Race peered at it, wondering who would take his selling spot. 

            In no time, the horses had pulled up in front of a large brownstone. The windows were lit and he could see into the large rooms. People hurried by one or two. The man stepped out and hurried up the steps, but Race paused, his hand on Rosie's shoulder. 

            The two stared up at the foreboding building. Race wished for the familiarity of the lodging house. But it was for Rosie, he thought, for Rosie. 

            "Come along." The man said, impatiently. Race looked back and took the first steps up the stairs. He didn't even bother knocking, but pushed the door open, beckoning the children in behind him. 

            Race entered cautiously, pushing Rosie behind him, peeking around the door. He took small steps, looking all around him, in the brightly lit hall, filled with mirrors and pictures and paintings. A heavy elaborate light fixture hang on the ceiling, though Race wasn't sure if it was really made of crystal like it looked. The large staircase curved up to the second floor, made of dark thick wood, so unlike the thin rickety stairs of the lodging house. 

            Suddenly a door opened to the right and a man hurried out, his hands full of letters and his eyes on them. He had dark hair, neatly trimmed and clean. He had on a neat nicely pressed suit, like he had seen the hoity-toity types wear. And he hardly noticed the people in his hall. 

            Race thought he looked familiar, and he frowned as the man walked quickly past them. The man who had brought them there cleared his throat. The man looked up quickly. 

            "Oh, hello Sciortino." The man bent a bit low in a bow like motion. Then he motioned to Race and Rosie. 

            "I've brought the children, sir."  For the first time the man's eyes rested directly on Race. Their gaze locked for an instant, and Race found himself staring into wide surprised eyes. 

            "My, my, you've found them already." the words were whispered, just under his breath. He moved closer and took Race's chin in his hand. Race jerked his face out of the man's reach. 

            He seemed a bit surprised. "My God, he looks just like her.' He whispered. Race swallowed hard and gazed back at him, coldly. 

            "Anthony, Roisin, this is your Uncle, Alfonso." Race raised his eyebrow. Alfonso turned his gaze onto Rosie hiding behind Race. 

            "Hello, little one." She peered out, like a frightened rabbit. "Don't worry, you are safe here."  She gave him a small smile. 

            "Well, I dare say that you arrived just in time. Dinner is about to be served. I'll have one of the servants show you to your rooms and you can get yourselves cleaned up before dinner."

            Race paused, his eyes wide. The words were swimming in his head, servants, rooms, dinner? Could it really be true? He had never had his own room, never had a servant. He'd always looked after himself, always him and Rosie. 

            "You can speak, can't you?" his Uncle asked, seeming impatient. Race glared at him, disliking this stiff and formal man more and more. 

            "A'coise!" he said, indignantly. The man groaned. 

            "Oh dear, I hadn't realized." He shook his head. "How long have you been on the streets?' he asked. Race frowned. 

            "Since Ma died." He said, glaring at him. 

            "And that was how many years ago?' Race shrugged. 

            "I dunno, nine, ten?" 

            He nodded as if Race had said something horrible, "Well, perhaps we can still teach you to speak properly. I suppose the girl speaks the same way you do?" 

            "What's wrong wid da way I tawk?" Race asked, hands clenched in fists, wondering if it was wrong to want to soak your own Uncle. 

            He shook his head and pulled a cord hanging on the wall. A faint jingling echoed down the hall. In an instant, a plump rosy-cheeked woman appeared. 

            "Yes, sir?" he nodded to the two kids. 

            "Take Anthony and Rosin-" he said, pronouncing her name like rosin, not rosheen like it was. 

            "Roisin." Race corrected. God, could no one pronounce the child's name. 

            "Roisin to their rooms." He eyed Race's ink covered hands, "And see if you can do something to clean them up a bit before we eat. I am sure Mrs. Cammarata would not be pleased to see children resembling street rats at her table." The woman nodded. 

            "Certainly sir.' Then she took Race's arm and led him up the stairs. Race couldn't help but stare around him at all the fine things he'd only heard about. As he was led down the hall, a door opened. 

            He turned to see a boy about Les's age, maybe a bit older, staring at him, open-mouthed. He had fine clothes, and dark smooth skin. His brown hair was brushed back neatly, unlike Race's whose hair was greasy and messy under his cap that he had yet to remove. 

            Neither boy moved for an instant. Then the woman saw Race was not following her and took his arm. 

            "Come along, son. You can speak with your cousin at dinner." Race stared harder, this boy was his cousin? He turned around and followed the woman down the hall to a room on the left. 

            She opened it and he found a nice comfortable room, tinted a light brown. There was a large bed, big enough to fit five or six newsies into. There was a wardrobe and a desk. 

            "This is your bedroom, master Anthony." He spun around. 

            "Please don't call me dat." He asked. She smiled at him. 

            "I doubt you've ever been called that before?" he shook his head. "Well, what would you like then?" he frowned. 

            "Racetrack, please."  She gazed at him, a smile on her face as if she didn't quite believe him. 

            "Racetrack?" he nodded. She shrugged. "If you say so, sir. Now, you should get cleaned up. I'll have a bath drawn up for you and you'll have to wear those clothes for now," she eyed his dirty tattered vest, shirt, and pants. His shoes were scuffled, he knew. They'd been that way since he'd found them in the trash. 

            "Dese is fine." He said, wrapping his arms protectively around his bag. 

            She waved her hand. "Nonsense. Now, get a bath and then come down to the dining room."  Then she closed the door. 

            Race set his bag down on the bed, and moved towards the window. He pulled it open and breathed in the cleaner fresher air that made it clear he was no longer in the slums. 

            The evening sun painted the rooftops a rich golden color. In the distance, he could see the large expanse that spanned the river, splitting the territories of lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, neutral territory as far as the newsies of New York were concerned. But it was beautiful tonight. He crossed it almost every day, and yet he never noticed how it shone in the setting sun. 

            Suddenly, there was a knock of the door, which interrupted his thoughts.  Quickly, he remembered that he was supposed to be cleaning up and hurriedly filled a nearby basin with water from the china pitcher on the nightstand. 

            "Whudda ya want?" he called, pretending to have been very busy. The door opened and  the boy entered, edging into the room, as if he thought Race was going to attack him.  

            He stopped and stared at Race, looking as if he had seen a ghost. Race stared back, planting the annoyed, bored look on his face. He did not want them thinking he was as frightened as he was.             

            "I am pleased to meet you, Anthony. I'm Teodoro. I can't believe you're really here! did you really grow up on the streets?" Race squinted at him, frowning.  Who did this little shrimp think he was? 

            "Who are ya?" he asked. The boy laughed, a gentle rolling sound that filled the room and made Race feel a bit better. 

            "I had completely forgotten. I'm your cousin, I suppose you would say. We've been looking forward to you coming since grandmother  found that article in the Sun and noticed how much you looked like her daughter." Race stared, he had just accepted the concept of having an Uncle,. Could it be that he really did have a real family, complete with cousins and grandmothers as well? He did not know of one other newsie that did, with the possible exception of David. 

            "Grandmudda? Cousin?" Race asked, almost in disbelief. But instantly, the cold façade was up again and he shrugged. "Figuas." The boy frowned. 

            "I am to inform you that supper will be ready in a matter of minutes. Finish your washing and then come downstairs." Then the door closed and Race was left alone again.

            He sighed, well, he certainly was not making any friends. But it wasn't about him or making friends, he told himself. He'd be here only enough to make sure that they wouldn't hurt Rosie, and then he was gone, back to Jack and the newsies.  He wasn't welcome here, anyway. 

            He dipped his hands into the water, scrubbing at the dirt and ink almost imbedded in his skin. He rubbed hard, and the dirt fell away, revealing a pale olive complexion, tanned only slightly by the sun. But the ink did not wash off. 

            Race scrubbed harder, till his hands were red, but the ink stains remained. It was if they were a part of his hands now. Well, he'd never tried to wash them off before.  Even more true that his hands had not seen soap in ages, he couldn't remember when. But that was a bit strange that the stains would not come off. 

            He dried his hands and his face. Then he took a deep breath, glancing in the mirror. He did not look like he belonged in a place like this. 

            His dark hair was greasy, and hadn't seen a comb in days. His fingers had always sufficed, though he did share one such comb with Mush. His skin was tanned from the sun, but underneath it was a sickly olive color. From malnutrition, maybe?  Lack of sleep, perhaps. His hands remained stained with newsprint ink, his clothes dirty and tattered. But they were from whatever donations Kloppman managed to get. 

            Every couple of years someone would drop off a bundle of clothes or rags at the lodging house and the boys would have a little Christmas. Kloppman would hand out shirts and pants, suspenders and socks, all according to need.  No one else ever wanted the snappy vests, the blue striped one that was in his bag, or the gold checked one that he was wearing now, so Race had gladly taken them.  The shirt was a little big, but it fit. The pants were big too, but a good pair of suspenders had taken care of that. His shoes, he had found in the dustbin of some rich house. They were only a little scuffed and his size, though he had grown a bit since then. Still, they fit. 

            Race sighed and laid his cap on the bed, wondering if he should grab his jacket. He decided against it and pulled his door open. There was the sound of dishes rattling and murmured voices below him and he wandered down the hall to the staircase, resisting the temptation to slid down. 

            He slowly slipped down the steps and followed the voices. He peeked inside the first door on the left. There was a large table and gathered around it, were his Uncle, his grandfather, the boy, Rosie and several other people, two women and a girl he had not met. 

            He thought about backing up and leaving right then and there, but Rosie looked up and saw him there. 

            "Tony!" she jumped out of her seat and rushed at him. Race smiled as she tacked him, as if she hadn't seen him in years. Her light red ringlets were curled around her face and tied back with a blue ribbon. She wore a sky blue dress, lacy, like he'd seen on dolls in store windows. He didn't like the idea of his sister looking like a doll. 

            "Ah, we were wondering what was keeping you." His Uncle got up and helped Race detangle Rosie from around his waist. He led Race around the table, to a spot next to Rosie and to the girl. 

            Then his Uncle sat down and sighed. "Now that we're all together, let us bow our heads and say grace." Race raised his eyebrow as every member obediently lowered their heads and closed their eyes. Even Rosie did so. 

            He took the opportunely to study each one a bit more closely. The girl on his left, he saw, had the same dark hair as her father, but it shown, clean and gleamed in the light. Her skin was smooth and free from the hardened rough skin of the girls he knew. She was a beauty, looking to be about fifteen or sixteen, just about his age. But there was something about her that radiated snobbery. Her nose was in the air, even as she prayed. 

            The older woman sat up straight, her eyes closed. Her dark black hair was pulled up in an elaborate hairstyle and her dress was of the latest fashion. Her skin was just as clean and smooth as her daughters and Race got the impression that she saw very little sun.

            The oldest woman, whose white hair was all piled on top of her head in a tight bun, held a small rosary in her hands and murmured along with the prayer. Her skin was wrinkled and Race wondered how old she was. He'd never really seen anyone that old, except for Kloppman and a few neighbors. People did not live that long on the streets. 

            A second sense somewhere deep in him allowed him to know when someone was looking at it. Whether it was something he was born with or something acquired on the streets, Race didn't know. But he glanced across the table and saw the boy, peeking up from his hands at him from his supposedly bowed head. Race glared at him and the boy ducked his head. 

            Finally the endless prayer ended and the family raised their heads. His aunt rang a small bell and a door opened, allowing a servant to enter with a large tray of food, steaming, and delicious wonderful food. 

            Race couldn't help himself as a full plate was set in front of him. He licked his lips, staring at the meat and vegetables he couldn't identify, but he knew he would eat. After all, he had dug through the garbage behind restaurants for scraps. This was a feast!

            "Well, before we eat, I would like to welcome our two new members of the family. Anthony, Roisin, I want you two to feel like you are part of this family, despite the choices your mother made that caused the terrible rift between her and us." 

            "I'm surah ya do." Race mumbled under his breath, anxious to get started on the food.  

            "Amen." The old woman mumbled. 

            "But before you get settled in," he continued, a warning tone creeping into his voice. Here it comes, Race thought. "You must understand that this is not a free for all. You will do as you are told, mind your manners, whatever you may have, or there will be consequences. Am I understood?" 

            "Consequences? Whudda ya gonna do, kick me out inta da street?" Race asked, laughing, "da place I lived foah me whole life?" 

            The woman who was his aunt pressed her hand to his mouth as the words came tumbling out of his mouth. 

            "Look, I'se heah foah one reason only." Race continued, ignoring the looks that were being shot at him from all around. "And dat's da make surah Rosie heah gets da life she desoives. Da streets ain't foah her. And dis place ain't foah me.  Am I undahstood?" he said, placing a grin on his face at the end of his imitation. His Uncle stared at him, almost open-mouthed. 

            "Alfonso, the food is getting cold." His aunt murmured. His Uncle held up his hand. 

            "We will not eat until Anthony apologizes." Race stared at him. 

            "Foah what?" He asked, angry.  

            "For being disrespectful. You may say what you like on the streets, Anthony, but in this house, we are courteous and respectful." 

            "He probably doesn't know what that means." The girl said, smugly. Race turned his glare on her. 

            "If ya don't wanna eat, goil, jist keep at it." she stared at him. 

            "Is that a threat? He just threatened me!" she almost screamed. Race rolled his eyes, things were not going well at all. 

            "Oh, believe me, deah, if I treatened ya, ya'd know." He said, glaring at her. 

            "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control." The old woman murmured. It was the first time she had spoken. Her eyes met Race's and he saw a hard coldness in them, something that sent chills up his spine. It was then that he got the idea that she did not like him very much. 

            "Please, Tony?" Rosie asked, her brown eyes wide. Race watched her, knowing this was for her. He took a deep breath. 

            "Sorry." The word was forced out of him, but it seemed to relax the mood a bit. His Uncle nodded.

            "I will try to understand that you are making a transition and certain allowances must be made, but this will not be a habit, am I clear?" 

            "Yeah." Race murmured. 

            "Perhaps we could start with some manners." His aunt suggested. "You may address us as Aunt Natalia, and Uncle Alfonso. Or as sir and ma'am." Race shrugged. 

            "Can I eat?" she nodded and Race attacked his food, Rosie doing the same, only with a little more dignity. After all, she had had dinner at Tibby's. Race had forgone it to feed her. 

            "God, are you starving?"  Race glancing at the girl, not stopping in his consuming of the food. After all, he had learned to eat and not look at his food a long time ago. 

            "Did you eat today?" aunt Natalia asked.  Race frowned. Had he eaten today? He paused to think. Yes, there was that apple, stolen that morning. 

            He nodded. "Yeah, I ate. Jist not anytin' like dis. A meal like dis would cost morah den I can make in a week." He said, eyeing the fancy meal. There was a round of embarrassed looks all around and Race got the impression that he'd said the wrong thing once again. 

            From the head of the table, his Uncle had pulled out a newspaper and was scanning it. 

            "What are you looking for?" the boy asked as he flipped the page. 

            "A story about the mayor. Something about an assassination attempt. Someone tried to dive bomb him." he said, causing his aunt to gasp. 

            Race couldn't help it. Halfway through a bite, he choked. Trying his hardest not to laugh, he failed to not attach any attention. 

            "Is there a problem, Anthony?" Race shook his head, fighting for air. He remembered that article. He'd used that idea himself. The headline actually read Pigeons Fly at Mayor's Coach. Race had changed it to, Aerial attack on Mayor's life.    

            In only a few more minutes the meal was over, though Race's plate had been cleaned long before.

            His aunt glanced at a clock. She asked her children about their school work. They answered, Race was sure, but he wasn't listening. Absentmindedly, he was wondering what that old painting on the mantle would sell for, and how many meals he could get with that dough, not to mention the bets he could place. 

            "Anthony?" he jerked out of his reverie to stare at her, a bit annoyed. "I was wondering, what grade are you in?" she asked, smiling gently at him. Race looked at her, confused. What was she talking about?

            "Grade?" she nodded. 

            "In school." He laughed then, and she frowned. 

            "Oh," he said, reaching for one more bun." Sorry, I dunno. I ain't evah been ta school." He said. She stared at him, appalled. The children looked at him as if he were mad. 

            "But," she stammered, loosing her calm composure. "you do know how to read, don't you? And write?" 

            "He probably can't spell his own name.' The girl sneered. Race glared at her. 

            "R-A-C-E-T-R-A-C-K H-I-G-GI-N-S." Race shot back. 

            "Racetrack?" she asked, laughing. "That's not your name. You don't even know your real name." Race glared at him. 

            "It's me nick, besides, it's bedda den some names I could tink a." he snarled.  His aunt raised a hand to her mouth. 

            "Alfonso, do something." He glanced at them over his paper. 

            "Anthony, leave your cousin alone." 

            "She started it!" he protested. 

            "Margherita, don't bother your cousin." 

            "But Papa!" he shook his head and lit a cigar. Race's eyes landed on it and he longed for one, even a cigarette. But he doubted that they would appreciate it if he lit up there. Besides, his stash was up in his room. 

            "But you do know how to read?" his aunt asked. Race nodded. 

            "Me mudda taught me." 

            "She did?"  she glanced at her husband. "Did she teach you to write too?" Race shook his head. 

            "Nah, dat I loined from Mrs. Sullivan, me best pal's ma."  
 he said. She nodded. 

            "And mathematics?" Race nodded. 

            "Some, ya gotta. If ya don't know howta count, ya can get cheated. Every kid knows dat." She nodded. 

            "Perhaps we could add you to Professor Ryan's lessons. Heaven knows he has enough to put up with, what with the children." 

            "It's okay, I don't need no school." Race protested. 

            "Nonsense." His Uncle said from behind the paper. " You will be educated as is fitting your status."  Race sighed. Then his Uncle excused him and he hurried upstairs, Rosie behind him. 

            As he entered his room, he heard a voice in the street. He crossed to the window and saw a boy, a boy he knew all too well, standing on the corner, hawking the headlines. 

            "It's Blink." Rosie saw. Race nodded and put his arm around her. For an instant, he watched Blink, wanting nothing more than to be down there, making up headlines with his friend. But he sighed and looked away. 

            His Uncle walked past his open door and paused when he heard the newsie outside. 

            "Shut that window. Maybe then, we can have some peace." Race pulled the window shut, as his Uncle made his way down the hall, mumbling, " blasted noise." Race decided that his new family did not need to know what he did for a living. 

            Just before he turned around, Blink turned and stared right up at his window. Race smiled and waved and Blink grinned back. Then he took off running.  Race sighed and watched him vanish into the darkness that was only temporarily lit up by streetlights. 

            Then he pulled his curtains shut, yanking them off their hangers. Rosie stared at the ground. Race collapsed on the bed, letting out a sigh of despair. Rosie crawled up next to him. He wrapped his arms around her. 

            "Ya like dis place, Rosie?" she nodded. 

            ""It's nice. Aunt Natalia promised ta take us out tamorra and get us some new clothes.  She said yours was almost fallin' apart." Race glanced down at himself; maybe they were a bit shabby. 

            He sighed again, closing his eyes. In an instant, he was asleep. 


	3. The Fine Life?

Hey, sorry for the delay. First we were in Toronto for the weekend, and then I was so tired when we got home that I slept almost all of yesterday afternoon and today. Hopefully, you will all forgive me and review! Go on, you know you want to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He awoke to a rising sun. At first, he didn't remember why he was curled up in a large four-poster bed, wrapped in a warm wool blanket. When he did, he groaned. Then he rolled over, reminding himself that Kloppman would not be wandering over to poke him awake with that goddamned broom. More than one newsie had been tempted to snap it.  
  
He yanked the blanket over his head, just as the door burst open and a small bundle of energy attacked him.  
  
"Tony, Tony, get up! Ya gotta get up! Its time ta get up!" Race glared at his sister from a hole in the covers. Great, the first morning he had managed to sleep past the morning edition, he was jumped on way before he needed to be.  
  
"Come along, boy." Race moaned as his Uncle called through the door. " Your aunt wishes to take you shopping before you start school."  
  
Race rolled out of bed, splashing cold water on his face. He moved towards the towel, automatically feeling for anyone who might be thinking of stealing it, and then remembering that Skittery was not here.  
  
It took him a only a moment to get dressed. Then he was dragged down the stairs by Rosie. The children, Teodoro, and Margherita were waiting.  
  
"It's about time." Margherita grumbled, but Teodoro watched him, eyeing his every move. His aunt stepped out of the small dressing room.  
  
"Ah, there you are, Anthony. Are you ready?" Race stared at her, still wondering if this was all a dream.  
  
"Foah what?" he asked, sleepily. She smiled  
  
"Why, to get you too some new clothes." Then she ushered the four children outside and into the waiting carriage.  
  
It wasn't long until they stopped in front of a large store, several stories high. Race sighed and glared at the brick building. He knew when he left it, he would look like a different person, someone he was not. His aunt gently shoved him forward.  
  
They entered and almost instantly, a clerk was beside them. He smiled at aunt Natalia and the children, but he raised his eyebrow at Race and wrinkled his nose only slightly. Anyone else would have missed it, but Race caught it only because he was looking for the look of disgust that was sure to cross the young man's features.  
  
"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked. She nodded.  
  
"Yes, I need several new sets of clothes for Anthony here, shirts, trousers, coats, shoes. Everything." Race opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it.  
  
"Certainly, ma'am. I'm sure we can find something." And with that, he led Race off. Race followed him, his shoulders slumped.  
  
He led him to a back room where a woman waited. She gave Race the same look the clerk had.  
  
"What does he want?" the clerk nodded at him.  
  
"Mrs. Cammarata brought him in. Says she wants the full works." The woman sighed.  
  
"Honestly, she should know that if you're going to give out charity, these lazy immigrants are better off with a roll or a nickel, not a new set of clothes." Race rolled his eyes, he could easily tell her that he was not an immigrant and would indeed be happy with a nickel. But this was all for Rosie, he reminded himself.  
  
The woman pointed to a stool and Race moved towards it.  
  
"You can understand English, can't you?" she asked, glaring at him. Race rolled his eyes.  
  
"No, I ain't got no idea what youse sayin." Race retorted. If she was going to slander his home, then he was going to show her just what kind of attitude the streets could give you.  
  
"Oh dear," she said, sighing, " it's worse than I thought." Race glared at her and she pointed to the stool again. "Shirt off." Race stared at her.  
  
"Now." He folded his arms across his chest.  
  
"No way!" he said. He had not come here to be humiliated.  
  
"Look kid, it's my job to take your measurements and I plan to do just that. Now take off your clothes and get on that stool this instant." Race bit his lip, but did as she said.  
  
He had never felt to humiliated as the woman circled him, taking note of his thin frame and shallow skin. He stood, shivering, even in the warm summer. From his right, he could see himself in the mirror. And what he saw frightened him.  
  
Was he really that thin that you could see each and every rib? Sure, money had been a little tight lately, what with the strike and none of them having any income for almost two weeks. All the money he'd been saving up had been almost all used to buy food, Kloppman having given them all free nights during those two weeks. When the strike had ended, Race had barely had enough to buy his papes.  
  
He was jerked out of his thoughts when the woman roughly shoved his arm through a sleeve. She handed him the pants and Race yanked them on, dragging his other arm through the shirt sleeve. A coat was thrown over him as well and the woman dragged him off the stool and out into the store.  
  
They found the family not too far off, with Aunt Natalia trying on several hats on Rosie. She smiled when she saw Race.  
  
"Oh, you have done a wonderful job. He looks so much more," she paused, ' civilized." Race sighed and slumped lower. The woman poked him in the small of his back and he straightened, wincing in pain.  
  
"We can have several more sets by this afternoon, if that is convenient." Aunt Natalia nodded, smiling.  
  
"Oh that is just perfect." Then, she led them out and Race closed his eyes, feeling like some sort of dress up doll. It was not a feeling he enjoyed. He sighed as his aunt met someone she knew and took great delight in introducing her new nephew and niece. Little Rosie smiled and giggled at the attention that was paid to her.  
  
Race watched her, fighting the ache in his heart. She was happy, only a child and she knew what she wanted. He was sixteen, almost seventeen, and he had no idea what he wanted. He only knew what he didn't want. He didn't want to end up desperate like his mother. He didn't want to be driven to the factories, only to die before his time and leave his children alone in the world to grow up on the harsh streets.  
  
"Come along, Anthony." Her voice broke through his reverie again. He inwardly sighed and they made their way back outside. Thankfully for him, his aunt felt like taking a walk and so she led the children around to the park. Margherita moaned, but Teodoro only looked on it as a new and better opportunity to follow this boy that intrigued him so much.  
  
As they neared the park, Race heard a familiar voice.  
  
"Extry, extry!" he spun around to see Mush hollering his headlines in what had been Race's spot. He frowned, but pushed it aside. It was a good spot and he wasn't using it anymore. It's only right that someone like Mush should have it.  
  
Suddenly, a whistle blew and Race braced himself, poised to run. The sound of the policeman's whistle had always frightened him. He saw Mush do the same as he turned and fled, only to bump right into a fat policeman who seized his collar.  
  
Mush struggled, but he was caught. Race watched, frowning. Then, a thought came to him. He glanced at his aunt, who was whispering something to her daughter. His cousin and sister were hardly paying attention and so he grinned.  
  
Then he slipped away. He watched them hurry on and was quickly at the policeman's side.  
  
He took a deep breath, praying that he could mimic the accents of his relatives.  
  
"Excuse me, officer. Just what are you doing?" inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief as the voice had not a trace of the streets in it. The officer stared at him, as did Mush.  
  
"I'm making an arrest, kid. None of your business." Race rolled his eyes.  
  
"None of my business, eh? And what am I going to tell my Uncle then? When he doesn't get his paper?" the man stared at him.  
  
"I don't care, kid. Now get out of my way." Race frowned; then he had an idea. Widening his eyes, he pointed behind the man and shouted.  
  
"Look at that!" it was a simple, stupid technique, but it had the desired effect. The man spun around and Race grabbed Mush out of his grip. The two boys took off down the street, darting into a dark alley, and up a fire escape. They had lost him in an instant.  
  
As they watched the man franticly search the alley, they sped off over the rooftops. Mush grinned at Race as they climbed down. Then he took in the fancy clothes.  
  
"Jeez, Race. Where'cha get dose clothes?" Race glanced down at himself and rolled his eyes.  
  
"Ah, me aunt, she don't tink I look like her kid. She says I looked like some street bum and made me get new clothes." Mush laughed.  
  
Race glared at him. "Don't laugh, dey itch. I don't like 'em.' Mush nodded, trying to cover up his laughter.  
  
"Come on, let's go get de uddas. Dey'll wanna see ya." Race nodded and Mush led the way to Tibby's. As soon as they entered the less than respectable establishment, Race shed the jacket and collar that was chocking him. A loud round of greetings echoed around him as his friends instantly welcomed him back into their fold.  
  
Jack made some comment about his new clothes and Race had rolled his eyes, ripping off the tie as well. It was too hot anyway. He quickly ordered a sarsaparilla and a roast beef sandwich.  
  
"So what's it like?" Jack asked. Race frowned, then quickly he smiled again.  
  
"Ah, it's ai'ght. A little confusin', but dey gots moa food den I could eat in a week." His friends laughed.  
  
"Ya selling' wid us?" Blink asked and Race nodded energetically. Anything to sell again.  
  
"Yer wid me.' Jack said, before anyone else could claim him. David frowned, but he could see there was something Jack wanted to talk about with Race and so he said nothing.  
  
As soon as they finished, the newsies filtered out into the street, the rest of the morning edition under their arms and most with the afternoon edition. Jack dragged Race down to the harbor. Race dumped his coat, vest, collar, and tie off behind a trash can and felt much better in only his light white shirt, unbuttoned half way down.  
  
"Extry! Extry!' his voice carried out over the docks, as they hawked the headlines to anxious sailors coming home after long voyages.  
  
It wasn't long before the sun began to dip beneath the skyline and Jack and Race found themselves on the Brooklyn bridge, smoking. Race savored the cigar he had managed to steal and Jack puffed on his cigarette.  
  
"So what's it really like?" Jack asked. Race sighed and stared out over the harbor.  
  
"Ya know, dis was da foist ting I eva saw when we got heah. I can rememba it, jist barely. I slept trough Immigration and da statue a' Liberty, but I rememba da bridge. I remamba I'd neva seen nuttin like it befoa.' He sighed and looked out over the Bay as if he could see the boat that had brought him and his parents from the "Old Country."  
  
Jack let his friend talk.  
  
"It mighta been betta if we had stayed, back in Napoli." He said, still using the Italian word for Naples, the city of his birth, ". But, foah everytin' we had ta go trough ta get heah, I neva felt moah helpless den in dat house."  
  
Jack sighed. So Race didn't like it. He had hoped, he shook his head. Who was he kidding, he had prayed that Race would come home.  
  
"How bad is it?" he asked. Race sighed.  
  
"Is it ungrateful ta hate it so much, ya tink? I mean, dey did offa me a home. And I can't stand it. Too many rules, too many constrictions. Nuttin I do is good enough, nuttin I say is right." Race shook his head.  
  
"But Rosie loves it, and I can't leave her. I can't, I promised I neva would. But it's only been one day and already I hate it." Race's voice was quiet, sober, fearful. Jack wondered what he could do to help his friend.  
  
"Yer her brudda, ya gotta watch out foah her. But I don't tink she wants ya forcin' yaself ta do sumdin ya don't wanna." He said, putting his hand on Race's shoulder. Race sighed.  
  
"She's only ten, Jack. She don't know what life is like widout me. She don't know all da tings I do foah her. She don't know dat yestaday, I didn't eat so she could. She don't know dat, and I ain't tellin' her."  
  
"Then why do ya do 'em?" Jack asked, knowing the answer.  
  
"Ya had a brudda once, Jack. Ya know." Jack winced, knowing Race had only brought up Jamie to prove his point, but the memories still hurt.  
  
"Yeah, I know." They were both silent, smoking as they watched the sun go down. Then they made their way back home.  
  
It hurt Race not to follow Jack down Duane street, and to go on, moving uptown slowly, as he trudged up the dark streets. Soon, he found himself in front of the large brownstone and sighed.  
  
Then he marched up the steps and pushed open the door. The lights were still on, and he could hear voices in the study to his right. Race tried to sneak up the stairs, but the door opened, his aunt rushing out.  
  
She gasped and pulled him into a tight hug. Race winced and struggled as his Uncle and grandmother exited the study.  
  
"Oh dear Lord, I was so worried. One minute there, the next, you were gone!" his aunt cried. Race rolled his eyes.  
  
"I jist saw one a me pals. Didn't mean ta be so late, but we got ta talkin'. Dat's all, I sweah." Race said. So it wasn't the whole truth, they didn't need to know that.  
  
"Regardless, that was a foolish and dangerous thing to do, running away from your aunt like that." His Uncle said, glaring at him. Race sighed, back home, he would never get lectured about being late.  
  
"Because of your disregard for the rules we have set, I am going to insist that you go to your room and remain there for the rest of the evening." Race stared at him.  
  
"But what about dinna?" he asked, as his stomach rumbled.  
  
"Perhaps a missed meal will remind you of the rules." Race shook his head, he couldn't believe it! For the first time in his life, he was able to eat as much as he wanted, and now, because of some simple stupid rule, they were depriving him of that very right to eat.  
  
"I don't believe dis!" he growled, " Takin' away me food jist because I didn't follah one a yer stupid rules? Ya ain't got no idea what dis places means ta me. When was da last time any a youse went hungry? Huh? When was da last time youse skipped a meal so dat da younga ones could eat? When was da last time ya slept outside in da rain jist so's youse could eat da next day?" he glared at his aunt and Uncle who were staring at him. " Ya know what it's like ta be hungry? Ta know dat ya have ta choose between a meal or a bed because ya ain't got money foah both?" Their silence was more of an answer than Race needed. "Dat's what I thought." He grumbled, before turning on his heel.  
  
He slammed his door behind him, and threw himself on the bed. His stomach growled and he moaned, shoving his face into the pillow.  
  
"Ah, shut it, will ya?" he mumbled to his protesting stomach. He closed his eyes and sighed. This was the grand life? He snorted, he'd take his old simple life over this any day.  
  
Race rolled over, and with much difficultly, he fell asleep. 


	4. Selling?

The next morning, he was awakened by a bouncing little sister, who had taken great joy in discovering that the beds were fun to jump on, especially when your older brother is still asleep in them.  
  
"Rosie, what does it take ta let me sleep in?" he grumbled, rolling over to let her sit on his chest.  
  
"Uncle Alfonso says school starts today." Race raised an eyebrow.  
  
"And what does dis havta do wid me?" he asked. She giggled.  
  
"Yer goin', right?" he sighed.  
  
"I dunno, Rosie. I was plannin' on sellin'." Now it was her turn to sigh.  
  
"Tony, ya said ya wouldn't sell no moah. Ya don't need ta. We got money now." Race shook his head.  
  
"We aint' got money, Rosie. We'se jist got family dat feels sorry foah us, dat's all."  
  
"But we'se still gots' each udda." She whispered. Race nodded.  
  
"Dat's all we'se gots, Rosie." She sighed and cuddled up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Race pulled her close and rocked her slightly, cherishing the moment.  
  
  
  
From just outside the door, the old woman watched them, her heart twisting. Her determination to hate the boy was conflicting with her natural maternal instincts. He was so much like his mother, too much. He was the reason, according to the old woman, that her daughter was not present at that very moment. Because of him and that filth she had married, Maria Cammarata was dead. And now the boy was here, all because her sweet Alfonso was feeling guilty about his sister's death and wished to appease her spirit by taking in her two children.  
  
The girl was an angel, that was for sure, even if she did take after her father in looks. But the boy, Anthony, he had his mother's looks and her temper as well. Probably combined with his fathers, as well. The boy was trouble, she knew it.  
  
And yet, for all his attitude and sarcasm, she could sense, maybe it was the mother in her, the fear in him. The boy was scared, so very very scared. He needed a mother, something she was sure he had never really had, not since his own had met her maker. She sighed and fingered the rosary in her hands.  
  
"God will be present, whether asked or not." She reminded herself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Race sighed as the four children made their way through the streets, to the home of their tutor. Margherita marched ahead, her books under her arms, paying little attention to her brother or cousins. Teodoro was babbling to his older cousin about the joys of an education. Little Rosie was simply eager to learn anything she could. But Race watched the upper Manhattan newsies jealously.  
  
Then, as they neared the house, Race had an idea. He waited for his sister to hop through the door, then backed off.  
  
"Aren't you coming?" Teodoro asked. Race nodded.  
  
"Yeah, I jist forgot sumdin, I'll be right back." His cousin nodded and Race turned and fled. He made the distribution station just as his friends were leaving. Jack gave him a surprised look, but laughed as Race pushed his way to the front of the line and quickly bought his usual amount.  
  
"Where'dcha get da clothes, Higgins?" Morris DeLancey asked, grinning. Race glared at him.  
  
"It's called money, Morris. I doubt ya eva seen much a it." The older boy gave a growl and reached for him, but Race was already down the platform and among his friends, who slapped him on the back.  
  
He quickly shed the outer layers of his clothing, disposing them behind a trash can. Then he hurried to his old selling spot.  
  
Once there, he planted himself down and began to yell the headlines. His regulars stopped to chat a bit before buying a pape and heading on their way. Race smiled, even as the sun burned over head. He didn't care.  
  
This was where he was supposed to be. This was what he was supposed to do. His papers were gone quickly, and he, dying for a smoke, watched for a potential victim.  
  
An older man passed, a cigar in his mouth. The man had just pulled it from a case in his pocket. Race smiled and made his move.  
  
He began to run, picking up the pace, until he ran right into the man. He looked sorry, murmuring apologies to the man, even as his fingers dove into the man's pocket, slipping the cigar case into his own. Then he ducked away, disappearing into the crowd.  
  
He had gotten only a block away before he heard the cry of "Stop, thief!" but he didn't care. He laughed as he ducked into an alley, letting the police fly by. Then he hurried down the alley, and through several more dark alley ways and shortcuts till he reached his destination. A small restaurant called Tibby's.  
  
His friends were already beginning to gather there as Race entered, pulling out the cigar case and lighting one. He opened it up, admiring the gold lining.  
  
Jack moved so Race could sit next to him. Race showed him the case.  
  
"How much ya tink I could get foah it?" Jack laughed.  
  
"Now Race, ya didn't steal it, didcha?" Race stared at him, completely innocent.  
  
"Me? Steal? Neva!" his friend only laughed as Race tucked it away, promising to hock it later. More of his friends joined them and Race settled back.  
  
As Mush related some tale of his newest girl, and Blink teased him endlessly, Jack lounged beside him, and the younger ones tackled each other, Race sighed happily. Why had he ever thought that he could find happiness somewhere else? He was perfectly happy right here.  
  
The clock struck and the newsies poured out into the streets. Race grinned as they met up with Davy and Les, as they passed the school.  
  
Their father let them only sell after school during the week and whenever they wanted on the weekends. Knowing Les, he would sell every day, all three editions, if it meant he could follow Jack all day.  
  
Race stopped by the now familiar place on the corner, just down from Tibby's. The old pawn broker looked happy to see him and greeted him by name. It was true, Race had been here many times, both before his mothers death and after.  
  
"Got sumdin real nice taday, Litten." He said to the old man who took the cigar case and studied it. Then he smiled.  
  
"Yeah ya do, kid. Ya didn't steal it now, didcha Race?" Race only laughed. Litten was one of the only shops in town that would take something without asking where it came from. He only took it and gave you your money, which he now handed Race ten dollars. Race took it and tucked it into his vest pocket, inside, safe from pickpocketers, though he had learned to spot them. After all, he had been one himself.  
  
He sold the afternoon edition quickly, then headed back to the spot where he'd left his clothes. Slipping them back on, he bid goodbye to his friends and hurried uptown to his house. Thankfully, he reached home just after his cousins and sister did. He could hear Teodoro in his room, and Rosie in hers. Margherita was nowhere to be seen and Race thanked God for that.  
  
He slipped into his own room and yanked off his coat and vest, hurriedly pouring water from the pitcher into the basin and scrubbing at the newsprint on his hands. As the previous attempts, the ink stayed on, just as strong. Race sighed and threw the clean rag back into the water, causing it to spill. He swore, throwing up his arms and collapsing on his bed, yanking his cap over his head.  
  
"Um, Anthony?" Race groaned. But the plaintive voice would not be dismissed so easily.  
  
Teodoro closed the door behind him and went to stand in front of his older cousin. Race yanked his hat off and glared at the boy, angry at his interruption. Angry at himself for having gotten into this mess.  
  
"Whudda ya want?" he grumbled. Teodoro hesitated.  
  
"Look, I know you didn't go to school today." Race raised an eyebrow.  
  
"So? Like I cae?"  
  
"You might not, but mother and father will. Then you'll be punished." Race laughed.  
  
"What, like last night? Kid, all I needs ta do is sneak oudda dat winda, and I got da whole city at me feet. I know about a hundred places in dis town ta get a free meal, and I don't need youse ta warn me."  
  
Teodoro nodded, his head ducked and shy. Race frowned, wondering if he was being too harsh on the boy and deciding he didn't care. No one had worried about being too harsh on him, and he'd turned out just fine.  
  
"I know, I know. But I just thought I'd warn you."  
  
"Why? Ya gonna rat me out?" the boy shook his head, his eyes wide as if he was thinking, how dare you even think that about me?  
  
"No! Of course not! I mean, I won't and Rosie won't. Margherita might if she cared, but she doesn't." Race narrowed his eyes, where was this going.  
  
"Look, you're going to need someone to cover for you, just in case." He glanced up hopefully.  
  
Race frowned, this kid was tricky. He had his eye on something, but what? He looked at Race like Les looked at Jack, like he was God.  
  
"And what's in it foah you?" he asked. The boy shook his head, holding up his hands innocently.  
  
"Nothing!" he protested, but Race only shook his head. No one in this town did anyone any favors unless they got something in return, everyone knew that. No one did things just to be nice, or out of the goodness of their hearts. He knew that. They were either looking for money, attention, affection, or salvation.  
  
He locked eyes with the boy and glared. The boy ducked his head again and sighed.  
  
"Maybe you could let me come with you sometime?" Race had to laugh. Was that all? The kid wanted to slum it sometime? Alright, if he wanted to make a fool out of himself, that was fine with Race.  
  
"Surah, kid. Sometime, ya can come wid me." Teodoro smiled, his whole face lighting up and he threw his arms around Race, who patted him nervously on the shoulder. Then the boy was on his feet and out the door.  
  
Race watched him go, shaking his head. This rich folks, he'd never understand them. He rolled over on his bed and buried his face in the pillow, ignoring his Uncle's calls to dinner and instead, falling fast asleep. 


	5. Betrayal?

The days turned into weeks and the air began to blow with the chill that signaled autumn, blowing the leaves and trash about in frantic gusts. The air grew colder and the newsies pulled their coats, if they were lucky to have them, or if not, their shirts closer around them.  
  
Race had given his first coat to little Snipeshooter just as the winds began to change, and so he was shivering right along with his friends. His aunt and Uncle felt that he needed to learn the value of fine things before they bought him a new one, but he knew they wouldn't let him freeze. Besides, he would probably give that one away too.  
  
At least he was sleeping in a warm bed at night and came home to a table full of food. Sometimes, he tried to sneak into the kitchen and steal food for his friends. He succeeded several times before he was caught and scolded, but that didn't stop him.  
  
As for his routine, he followed it every day. He would leave the house with the others, then slip off to where Jack was waiting for him, his papers in hand. His old friend would hand them to him and then set off for his own spot. Race would deposit the rich clothing behind a barrel and set up his spot.  
  
He would sell the morning edition, hurry into Tibby's for some lunch, and then sell the afternoon edition. Then he would find his clothes, if they were still there which sometimes, they weren't, and head back.  
  
Sometimes he would skip the afternoon edition and head out to Coney Island for the day. He would spend the day, catching up with his jockey pals and what were the best odds for that horse or this horse.  
  
His aunt and Uncle did ask about school, but he lied easily and they either believed him, or didn't care enough to delve deeper. His aunt did pester him about his hands, still stained with newsprint ink, the ink he could never remove, no matter how hard he tried.  
  
Yes, his routine was working fine. Rosie had a good home, a warm bed, food, and he got to do what he loved the most. Sell and spend time with his friends.  
  
  
  
One day, late in September, there was a week of bright sun and warm air, almost hot humid breeze. It became quite unbearable, as it does in the city, and one day, as they all sat around the breakfast table, his Uncle had a plan.  
  
"I propose a special trip." The children looked up at him, as did his wife, though her expression did not match the younger ones.  
  
"How about we pile into the carriage and head out to Coney Island for the day?" Race almost chocked. He tried to hide his face, but his Uncle caught the look on his face.  
  
"Well, I suppose you haven't been up there too much, it is a long way from that orphanage we found you in." Race's laughter faded and he clenched his fists.  
  
"It ain't no orphanage!" he hissed. His Uncle glared at him.  
  
"Right," he said, turning to the rest of the family. They nodded, excited as he hurried them off to get changed. Race slipped up to his room and pulled on his older clothes, his old plaid pants, baggy shirt, and gold checked vest, slipping his old watch into it, and feeling quite happy, as he slapped his old cabby hat on his head.  
  
As he descended the stairs, the family eyed him, but he gave them a wide grin and hopped into the carriage, eager to make the long trek to Coney island, for the first time in his life, the whole way, without putting his feet on the ground.  
  
They pulled away and Race leaned out the window, grinning before Uncle Alfonso pulled him back inside. The elder grandmother had opted to stay home, as had Margherita, but Aunt Natalia, Teodoro, Rosie, and Race were all packed into the crowded carriage.  
  
As they crossed the bridge, Race slid back inside, not eager to be seen by the Brooklyn newsies, or maybe, more by their leader, Spot Conlon. Spot was one of Race's best and oldest friends. Like Jack, Spot had known him before his newsie days, but the boy from Brooklyn had a much worse temper than Jack, and he might just look on Race's choice as a betrayal on his past, at least until Race explained it to him. But still, he did not want that to happen in front of his new family.  
  
They passed the docks with no incident, other than several pebbles hitting their windows. Race ducked back even, but his Uncle shouted out the window. Race winced as he heard familiar laughter, along with several stinging insults. But nothing came of it, the carriage did not stop and they continued on their way.  
  
Soon, they reached the fairgrounds. They were much as Race had left them, only a few days before, crowded and dirty in the corner over by the racetracks and neat and clean in the fairgrounds. Needless to say, Race drifted towards the tracks. His Uncle held him back however.  
  
"Now, Anthony, those tracks are not for decent children like you. They're for gamblers and ruffians." Race grinned, just the place he belonged.  
  
"Ah, come on, Uncle? Please? Jist one race, den I promise, I won't go neah dem again taday." He begged. His Uncle sighed, then nodded. Race led the way, almost running towards the booth. His Uncle pressed a fifty-cent piece into his hands and Race's eyes gleamed.  
  
"Oh, can I place a bet to, father? Just one?" Teodoro begged. His Uncle sighed again and handed his son the money, ignoring his wife's protest. Even Rosie got some money.  
  
The ticket master, a tall thin man with dark hair and a cheery laugh, named Bill Collins, recognized Race in an instant.  
  
"Heyya, Race!" He said, laughing at the boy. "Aint' seen youse around much." Race nodded, studying the sheet. Lightening was up for some good runs, she'd been winning, but there was a new horse, Home. Nothing fancy, just Home. Race frowned.  
  
"Yeah, been busy. Hey, Bill, what's wid da new hoss, Home?" Bill glanced at the tally sheet and nodded.  
  
"Yeah, full name is Home is where da heart is. New hoss, jist got in. She's good from what I seen, but she ain't had much experience heah. Dat's why de odds ain't so great."  
  
Twenty-five to one, not too good at all. But Race kept glancing back at her. He had a feeling. He didn't have them much, Pop used to have them all the time, but his, more often than not, resulted in a month of pinching and saving, and eating out of trashcans.  
  
"Ya gonna put sumdin down, Race?" he nodded, waving his hand and studying the form. Then he knelt down beside Rosie.  
  
"Whudda ya tink?" she frowned and pointed to Home. Race smiled and gave her a hug. He always had a secret weapon when it came to Rosie, she was a natural, just like he was at cards.  
  
"Fifty cents on Home." He said, slapping down the money. Bill eyed him.  
  
"You surah bout dis, Race? I don't like seein' ya loose." Race nodded.  
  
" Jist hand ovah da ticket, Bill." He did so and the family moved to watch the race begin.  
  
Race glanced around, knowing that the tracks were home to many people, including some he owed money to. That was not something he wanted his aunt and Uncle knowing. Already, he could see several people he knew, mostly gamblers he'd played against, or bet against, some jockeys, and stable boys.  
  
He hurried to the front line as they announced the first race was beginning. He lifted Rosie up and they watched as the runners lined up.  
  
He saw his horse right away, she was a big black beauty, coat gleaming in the afternoon sun, mane glistening, muscles rippling as she pranced, poised and ready to run. The gun went off, and she was a blur, running by them. Race cheered as she flew by, rounding the curve already.  
  
"Well, well, well, now who do we got heah?" Race spun around, wincing involuntarily as he saw his old friend, Spot Conlon.  
  
"Heyya, Spot." His friend did not smile back, and Race knew he was in trouble. He put Rosie down. She smiled at Spot and threw her arms around him. She got to see him even less than she did Jack.  
  
"Hey little girl." Spot said, patting her on the back.  
  
"Race let me bet! And our horse is gonna win!" she said. Spot smiled at her again.  
  
"Why don'tcha watch da race, I gotta tawk ta yer brudda." She nodded and turned to her cousin, tugging on his arm as Spot grabbed Race by the front of his shirt and dragged him off into the crowd. Race saw his Uncle move to follow them, and then decide otherwise. Smart move, he thought, he could tell that Spot Conlon was not in a good mood.  
  
He pulled him until he found an alley that was empty and shoved Race against the wall. Race was one of the only newsies who was smaller than the Brooklyn leader, and he probably could have easily taken him in a fight, but the boy's attitude made him hard to beat, and the loyalty of his boys was rivaled only by Jack's.  
  
Spot glared at his friend whom he had known since the age of four, when they had run into each other on the street and Race had taken him home to met his mother. Race looked at him, confusion and fear in his eyes. Spot didn't like seeing his old friends look at him in fear, but it was necessary if he wanted to maintain his position.  
  
"Whudda ya tink youse pullin', Race?" he asked, pushing Race against the brick wall hard. Race shrugged.  
  
"Whudda ya tawkin' about, Spot?"  
  
"Ya know what I'se tawkin' about, Race. Leavin' da newsies!" he hissed. Race shrugged again, refusing to meet Spot's eyes.  
  
"I ain't left, Spot. I still sell." He said, glancing up at him. Spot let him go and sighed. Race adjusted his shirt and glanced at the racetracks, wondering if the race was over.  
  
"Dat ain't what I hoid." Race glared at him now, annoyed with his friend. Spot may be the leader of Brooklyn, but he was still Race's friend.  
  
"And what didya heah. Spot? Dat I toined me back on ya? Dat I don't want no part a bein' a newsie no moah? Dat I'se gonna be sumdin?" he yelled, glaring at his friend, his frustration and anger pushing it's way to the front of his mind, making him care little about who he was yelling at.  
  
"And are ya?" Spot asked, his voice soft. Race shook his head.  
  
"What does it madda? I'se still da same, no new clothes is gonna change me." Race insisted, pushing his cap back above his hairline, letting the warm breeze cool him down a bit. Spot folded his arms across his chest.  
  
"How couldcha? I mean, youse was always da happiest a all a us, what wid whatcha were. I bet youse happy now, in yer fancy house, and yer fancy clothes. I bet youse real happy now." Race bit back the first reply that came to his mind, begging Spot to take him home.  
  
"I'se happy." He said, and before Spot could say another word, Race turned and walked away, before his heart broke, before he had to lie again. He wandered back to the tracks just as Rosie ran up to him.  
  
"She won! She won, we'se gots money now, Tony!" she wrapped her arms around her older brother and he picked her up, holding her tight.  
  
"I love ya, kid. Ya know dat." He whispered. Rosie frowned and tightened her arms around her brother. He did not say those words often, and she knew that. She was used to it.  
  
"I love ya too, Tony." She whispered back and held him tight as he shook, though no tears fell from his eyes. She knew they wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't let them. 


	6. The End?

Sorry it's been so long. To tell you the truth, I forgot I'd had to post this stuff, what with exams next week and all. Besides I'm working on a new story, another Jack and Race one, with the guest appearance of a large pretty famous ocean liner. Can anyone tell what I'm talking about? I hope so. Working on that one as fast as I can, though I should have some free time just after school. I don't start my job for another week after. Well, here's the next part of this story! I'll try to update a bit more frequently.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Another two days passed and the weather did not change, still hot and muggy. One Saturday, Race decided he had had enough of the hot sticky house and wandered outside, only to see Teodoro follow him.  
  
"Where are you going, can I come?" Race sighed, he hadn't really had a destination in mind, but he agreed. Teo, as he had come to call his adoring cousin, followed him almost everywhere.  
  
They walked through the park, Race avoiding any newsie he might come in contact with, but they saw none. Race had not sold in two days, not since the encounter with Spot. That night, he had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering.  
  
If he was going to be what his Uncle wanted, going to be something, going to stay for Rosie, he had to leave his old life behind, and that hurt. More than anything in the world. And so, he had not sold.  
  
Soon, he found himself at the very edge of the city, down at the docks across from Brooklyn. He smiled as he remembered many hot summer days down in these docks and wondered if his friends had taken to their old haunts.  
  
As they wandered down, he saw many things that he was sure Teo had never seen. The boy gawked openly at the older women, dressed in scandalous dresses and too much make-up that called to them, and some who even knew Race by name, though it was not for the reasons the boy might have suspected. He stared at the loud lewd sailors who also called to them, offering even worse propositions, Race ignored them and Teo did likewise.  
  
Race had long ago taken off his coat and ripped off his tie. Now he undid his shirt almost half way, letting himself cool off in the breezy cool air off of the river. Teo copied him, watching him carefully.  
  
"Is this where you used to live?" Race studied the area.  
  
"Not too fah away. We used ta come and swim down heah on days like dis." Even as he spoke, he heard splashing and cheering. A s they turned the corner, Race spotted his friends, all half naked, and most in the water already.  
  
He picked out Jack, in the water, and Mush swinging on the rope that they used to fly over the water and let go, sailing through the air to land with a splash in the water. The others were crowded around, Crutchy on the side, swinging his good leg and laughing as the others pelted him with waves of water. He could never swim because of his gimp leg, the water was simply too deep, and Jack never took chances with any of his boys, always taking it upon himself to teach the younger ones to swim. He had taught Race how to swim.  
  
Then he saw Blink, standing, fully clothed on the dockside. He was glaring, hands on his hips, down at Jack. And an evil plan formed in his mind. A little voice in the back of his head told him to keep going, to stay away from the newsies, in accordance with the promise he had made to leave his old life behind, but the idea was just too fun.  
  
"I toldcha, Jack. I gots me a date tonight and I ain't swimmin'. I'se all ready and I ain't messin' dis up." Blink was insisting.  
  
Race slipped off his jacket, vest and shoes, dropping them in an alley. Teo watched him as Race motioned for him to stay down. He watched in fear as Race slipped up to the older, tougher boys. His father had warned him about such boys and he worried about his older cousin.  
  
Race grinned as he ducked behind the trashcans, then the large poles that littered the dockside. Then, when he was close enough to Blink, he attacked. Running at full speed and throwing his arms around his friend, the propulsion of his speed sending them both over the edge of the dock and into the water.  
  
The newsies looked around, confused at first, then they laughed as Blink popped up, spitting water and thrashing like a mad duck. He yanked his wet cap off and threw it in the general direction of the laughing newsies.  
  
"Who did dat? Huh, who'se da wise guy?" Just then, Race popped his head up and dunked Blink under again. The sputtering newsie went under as his friends laughed and cheered Race on. When he came up this time, and saw his old friend, he began to laugh as well, wiping his wet bangs out of his eyes and turning the tables on Race, pushing his head under the water.  
  
Teo had wandered forward as soon as the laughing started and he watched in horror as the boy pushed his cousin's head under the water. He feared Race might have angered the boy and that he was now doomed.  
  
"Anthony!" he cried, attracting the other's attention. Blink let Race go and he popped up, eyeing his cousin. Jack hauled himself out of the water and stared at the rich boy who gazed back in fear.  
  
"Who'se dis, Race?" He asked, circling the poor boy, Race noticed his cousin shaking with fear. He'd probably been told that boys like us are dangerous, and they'll attack ya in a second, Race thought.  
  
"He's me cousin, Jack." Race said, yanking himself out of the water, and moving to stand beside the boy. He put his wet arm around the frightened boy and grinned.  
  
"Teo, meet Jack Kelly. Jack, Teo." He said. The older newsie shook hands with the boy who stared at him with wonder in his eyes.  
  
"Nice ta meetcha, kid. Any friend a Race's is a friend a mine."  
  
"I dunno about dat, Cowboy!" Mush hollered from the water. The other newsies laughed, knowing Race's history with gamblers and criminals. It was rumored among the newsies that Race had once played poker with the famous Big Gino Martello, a local Mob boss, and had won. Race had neither confirmed nor denied this statement, but he did seem to be a familiar face in Little Italy.  
  
"Race?" Teo asked, confused. Were they talking about the same kid? His cousin, Anthony? Why were they calling him Race?  
  
"Yeah, dat's his name, Racetrack." Race frowned a bit.  
  
"It's me nick. See, every newsie has a nick. Sumdin dey're known by. I like da racetracks so's dats what Jacky heah called me."  
  
"Racetrack?" he smiled, the name fit the boy, much better than Anthony. He wondered if he could call his cousin that sometime. He did feel a bit awkward calling him Anthony all the time, but felt odd at calling him Tony, which was obviously only what his sister used.  
  
"I like it." he said, grinning at his cousin who smiled back and jumped back into the water.  
  
"Come on!" Jack said, motioning to the water. "It's hot, and I know ya can't be comfortable in dose clothes, come on in!" he said. Teo hesitated, then listened to his cousin's laughter and shed his vest and shoes, sitting on the side, letting his feet dangle from the edge and watched as his cousin reunited with his friends, playing a quick and brutal game of dunking each other under water as much as possible.  
  
As he watched, he noticed a boy, seated next to him, watching him. He turned and saw a mess of curly red hair, gangly limbs, and a kind smile.  
  
"So yer Race's cousin?" he asked. Teo nodded, and held out his hand. The boy spit in his own and took his hand. Teo frowned, unfamiliar with the tradition, but he acted as if it were no big deal, as it was obviously something important.  
  
"Yes, what's your name?" the boy smiled.  
  
"Crutchy is what me pals call me." Teo frowned. What kind of name was Crutchy?  
  
"Why?" The boy motioned to his leg, which hung limply. Then he pointed to the wooden crutch laying on the dock next to him.  
  
"Dat's why." Teo winced, he instantly felt sorry for the boy.  
  
"What happened?" he asked. The boy's cheerful face faded and he glanced away, watching the other boys in the water as if he wished he could join them. Teo understood that the subject was not an open one. The look on his face was the same one as when he had asked Race once where his father was. Race had gotten a hesitant, unsure look on his face, one Teo had never seen on the confident boy's face before it had been replaced by a cold, uncaring countenance and the words, "I dunno, and I don't caeh."  
  
"Sorry," he whispered. The boy, Crutchy only smiled and waved his hand.  
  
"Dat's okay. Say, why ain'tcha swimming?" he asked. Teo shrugged.  
  
"I'd feel odd. I mean, they're Anthony's friends, not mine." The boy stared at him in wonder. "What?" he asked, feeling odd.  
  
"Ya called Race Anthony? He'd nevah let any a us call him dat. He says he hates it. Likes Race much bedda. I gotta say, it fits him bedda. Can't say I see a kid called Anthony doin' all da stuff Race does." Teo glanced at his cousin, who had just attacked the boy he met, Jack, and jumped on his back. He thought, how different this Racetrack is than the Anthony I know. It's as if Racetrack is who he really is, and Anthony is his nick name.  
  
"So you're a newsie?" Teo asked. Crutchy nodded.  
  
"Only time when dis gimp leg a mine comes in handy." Teo frowned.  
  
""What do you mean?" Crutchy went on to describe the finer points of selling the papers. The life intrigued Teo, who listened with interest. He was so fascinated that he failed to notice the other newsies climbing out of the water until the yelling began.  
  
Race climbed out of the water, running his fingers through his hair, and grinned at Jack. Jack tossed his hair back and forth, like a dog, spraying all his friends who protested half-heartedly.  
  
"So Race," he said as Race yanked on his shoes. "Ya selling' wid us?' Race shook his head.  
  
"Nah, I gotta get back." Jack frowned. He didn't want to admit to his fear that Race was finally letting go of his old life. He had noticed his friend's absence the last two days and the growing coldness between them. There used to be a time when they could sit on the roof and smoke, just the two of them, and not say a word and the air between them would be perfectly comfortable. Something his mother once told him was that you knew you had a true friend when you could sit together and not say a word and be perfectly happy. Now there was a tension in Race's stature, a coldness in his voice. And it frightened Jack.  
  
"Ya ain't been sellin', Race. Wassa madda, ya get too good foah us?" Blink asked, voicing the question in Jack's heart. He had meant it as a joke, but from the look on Race's face, he didn't take it as such.  
  
"I ain't been selling, because I don't need ta." Race answered. "Why should I keep sellin' when I gots money? Besides, I got's bedda tings ta do wid me time." It was a lie, a downright lie. There was nothing keeping him going but the thought of hawking his headlines, and retaining something of his old life, but he was angry. At his friends, at his Uncle, at himself, so angry and he tended to take his anger out on the closest person, at the moment Jack.  
  
"Yeah? So why do ya keep comin' back?" Jack asked, his voice rising with his temper. Spot was right, Race had turned his back on his friends.  
  
"Well, I ain't comin' back again!" Race yelled. "I don't need ya! I don't need dis!" he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigar, throwing it to the ground, "I don't need dis!" He ripped the pocket watch off its chain and threw it to the ground, sending it sailing to land at Jack's feet. "And I don't need dese!" he reached into his back pocket and threw the pack of cards to the ground, causing them to scatter.  
  
It was the ultimate end to everything. Those cards were who he was, who he had become in his years as a newsie. They symbolized so much of him, Jack had given them to him. And the pocket watch, his mother had given it to him as a child. Jack watched as Race turned on his heels and marched off, pulling his younger cousin behind him.  
  
The other newsies watched in horror and sadness as Jack bent down and picked up the pocket watch, staring at it, instead of the sight of his friends vanishing back. The cards he left, watching them as they caught the breeze and sailed out over the water on the wind. 


	7. A New Life?

Hey people, I don't have much time so I'll make this quick. T.H., glad to see you're still alive! I hope to see some more stuff from you! Anyway, I have finals tomorrow, wish me luck! Got to go!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Race stormed down the street, not slowing until they had reached the house. Once there, he slumped down on the steps, rocking himself. Teo didn't know what to do, other than to sit by him and offer him the presence of another soul who felt for him.  
  
Race cursed himself, how could he have done that? He had just become what he had promised he never would, he'd done what he swore he never would. He'd turned his back on his friends, his family. He resisted the urge to cry, only sighing and climbing to his feet. His still wet hair stuck to his head and his wet shirt stuck to his back.  
  
It was cooler, the evening breeze bringing in a cool front to cool off the hot city and Race was thankful. He walked in, just as his aunt exited the parlor.  
  
"Anthony! Teodoro! There you two are, we've been waiting." She eyed Race's wet hair and skin, frowning deeply. "Anthony, get upstairs and get changed. We have guests." Race sighed and climbed the stairs, not caring anymore.  
  
As he opened his door, he sighed, looking around. These bland, emotionless rooms would be his forever. He was not going back, not this time. There was nowhere to go, even if he could leave. He closed the door and slumped against it, wondering how he could have been such a fool. Jack would never take him back, not after what he'd done.  
  
Slowly, he got to his feet and changed, taking his time about finding a clean shirt and pants and drying his hair. For a long while, he only stared in the mirror, wearing only his pants, his hair still damp, cursing himself.  
  
He didn't even notice when the door opened and his grandmother stuck her head in. She had meant to only pause on her way down and tell him he was expected, but she stopped when she saw him, looking at himself.  
  
Race bit his lip as he stared at himself. This is not you, Racetrack, he thought, this is not you. This is a lie. You are a lie. Racetrack is dead, he thought, dead, and he isn't coming back. At this thought, he bit his lip and dropped his head into his hands, covering his face as his shoulders shook.  
  
He had never cried, not even on the night he had found himself an orphan. One of his first memories was that of his father's fist sending him across the room, and the drunken slurred voice shouting at him that only little babies cried, and he was not a baby.  
  
But he cried now, for the death of a part of himself, for the true soul that he was. His shoulders shook and the tears streamed from his eyes, staining his pale cheeks with little rivers of salty drops. He curled up in the tiniest ball he could manage, covered his face with his hands.  
  
It was when he felt warm hands on his bare back that he looked up, the tears still streaming. He jerked away from the old woman, as her usually cold eyes watched him. He wiped at his face, trying to make his shoulders stop shaking, but he couldn't.  
  
God, he must look a fool, he thought. But she only pulled him in closer and held him. Race gave up and buried his face in her long black dress, fingers digging into the expensive material. She rocked him silently, only occasionally whispering words of comfort to him in Italian.  
  
Soon his shoulders stopped shaking and his sobs quieted, but he made no move to let go and she did nothing to detach his hands from her dress. She only rocked him gently as if he were only a child that she loved, and not a boy who was almost a man, whom she had blamed for everything that had gone wrong in her daughter's life.  
  
After a long time, he stumbled to his feet, and reached blindly for the basin of cold water and splashed some on his face, trying to soothe his red, burning eyes. He wiped at them, trying to pretend that it hadn't happened, that he hadn't let himself cry.  
  
"Anthony," her voice was smooth and warm, not cold like it had been for so long. Race looked up at her, biting his lip. In that instant, he looked so much like her daughter that her breath caught in her throat.  
  
"Dinner is being prepared whenever you are ready." Race nodded, turning back to the mirror and scrubbing at his hands. She noticed several dark stains, like newsprint. He was rubbing at them furiously, until the skin was almost coming off. Gently, she took the towel from him and dipped his hands into the cool water. The ink did not disappear, as she knew it wouldn't.  
  
"Do not try and hide what you are." She whispered. Race gave a hiccupping sob.  
  
"I dunno what I am. I ain't like youse," he whispered, "But I ain't no newsie no moah." In an instant, he realized he'd let his secret slip and he stared at her in fear. She shook her head.  
  
"I take a walk every morning in Central Park. Do you think I did not see you? I did, and I also saw that you were happy." Race nodded, letting his gaze drop. The tears threatened to come again and he pushed them back.  
  
"I wus, I wus happy." He whispered.  
  
"Then why come back? Why not stay as you were?" Race looked up at her. And then he shrugged.  
  
"Bedda food." he said, and she knew he was lying. He had a wall, a thick wall, this boy, built up after years of pain, and a promise not to get hurt anymore. No one could get through this fabricate of cynicism and apathy, no one but the child who slept in the room next door. She knew the feelings well; she herself had built such a wall. And this boy was about to break through.  
  
"Do not lie, it does not become you." She said, scolding him. Race shrugged again.  
  
"Why da youse caeh?" he shot at her, pushing the cold heartless man to the front, hiding the frightened uncertain boy behind him.  
  
"Because, you are my grandson, my daughter's child. She gave her life for you, and I will do all that I can to see that she did not die in vain, and I expect you to do the same." She told him, just as coldly. The hard look in his eyes vanished, replaced by the worst emotion for him, uncertainty.  
  
"She did?" he asked, hesitantly. Did this woman even know how she died? Did she?  
  
She nodded, "Of course, indirectly perhaps, but she loved you enough to leave everything she knew to give her unborn son a new and better life." Race didn't say anything.  
  
"Now tell me, why do you stay?" Race's shoulder's slumped and he sighed, closing h is eyes.  
  
"Cause a Rosie," he whispered. "Rosie, she counts on me, she needs me. I gotta be dere foah her, she's all I got." His voice was quiet, as if realizing for the first time, that the little girl was truly all he did have.  
  
Realization dawned too, on the old woman as she realized the depth of love that this boy must have for the girl, and how little she knew of it. Not many brothers were willing to give up everything to make sure their little sisters had a better life. Now that she thought of it, hadn't that been exactly what his mother had done? Left Napoli to give her son a new life in the New World, as much as she had tried to stop her.  
  
"You are truly your mother's son." She said, brushing his hair back. He glanced at her, his brown eyes full of hurt and pain. She held him close and he let her, sensing perhaps, that she needed this as much as he did.  
  
"Now get dressed, your Uncle will be wondering what happened to us." And she got to her feet, sweeping out of the room with a final kiss to his cheeks, which he returned out of habit.  
  
When she had left, Race turned back to the mirror, no longer hating the boy starting back. Though he was annoyed with himself, the biting edge of hate had left and he moved to pull his shirt on, and dry his hair. When he looked passably presentable, he made his way downstairs where he heard the rumble of voices had moved to the study.  
  
Carefully, he poked his head in, watching as his Uncle introduced his grandmother, who offered her hand in a cold fluid motion, her cold hard eyes back. He hesitated, wanting nothing more than to run back upstairs to his room, but it was too late.  
  
"Ah, there you are, Anthony. We were beginning to think you had run away." He laughed at the joke, but Race's attention was centered on the tall man with the thick beard that was focusing his attention on his grandmother. When his Uncle spoke, the man turned and Race gasped.  
  
It was Pulitzer! There was no mistaking those hard cold eyes that had laughed at him when he came to beg for Jack, that day Jack had been arrested and sentenced. Race had made the trek up the long winding stairs to beg for his friend's life. He had nothing to bargain and he knew he was coming in with an empty hand, but the others had voted. They felt Davy needed to stay out of sight, and Race, being the next highest in line, had been volunteered for the job. Race took a deep breath, and a step back, feeling for the doorknob. But it was too late.  
  
Pulitzer stared at him for a moment, puffing on his cigar. Then he moved forward quickly with a speed he thought strange for a man of his age. He stood before Race, studying him.  
  
"This is your nephew?" he asked. His Uncle nodded.  
  
"This is Anthony." Pulitzer laughed.  
  
"Strange that a nephew of such a man as yourself would have spent the last ten or so years selling my papers." There was a stunned silence in the room as all eyes turned to Race. He gave his uncle a weak smile, but could not ignore the sudden flare of hate that filled his Uncle's eyes.  
  
"Selling your papers?" his voice was soft and dangerous. It reminded him of his father's voice when he was drunk and Race winced. Pulitzer nodded.  
  
"Of course, I try to keep tabs on all my regular newsies, and this boy, Racetrack, I believe he goes by, is one who gives me a great deal of trouble."  
  
"I ain't nevah gave youse no trouble!" Race insisted. Well, there had been that one time he had been caught pick pocketing and had been brought straight to Pulitzer, he'd been about ten, maybe eleven. And the time he'd been caught gambling on the church steps. That time he'd gotten a lecture on the sins of gambling and the long road that would take him to hell. Afterwards, he'd gone home and set up a game of poker.  
  
"Never caused me any trouble? May I remind you, boy, just who organized the rally at Irving Hall?" Race glared at him. He had been rather proud of that feat, it took a lot to get five thousand boys to gather in one place, and though it had turned into a disaster, that was hardly his fault.  
  
His uncle was glaring at him, full blast and Race knew he was in trouble. He had often heard his Uncle complain about the strike and how it hurt business. But Race had ignored him, or changed the subject.  
  
"I hope you took extreme measures with this one, Alfonso, he's been arrested several times." Pulitzer said, glaring at Race over his cigar. "Not to mention his involvement in the strike." Race clenched his fists.  
  
"Ya was cheatin' us! What else could we do?" Pulitzer only smiled as if he knew something Race did not. "Ya charged us moah widout tellin' us! Ya didn't even tink ta wonda if we could spare anudda lousy ten cents! Youse could, so why don't you make up da difference instead a taking a dime from us woikin' kids. I could eat foah a whole day on dat lousy dime youse took!" Race was yelling now, the arrogant publisher reminding him once again why he had joined the strike in the first place.  
  
These rich folks, they think they can walk all over us kids, well, not anymore! Jack's words rang in his head and he forgot where he was, he forgot who was there, and he couldn't care anyway. This was a man who had wronged him, who had stolen something from him. True, the strike was over, but the things he had learned from the strike, Race held dear to his heart. And the fact that he no longer had the newsies, made his hurt much worse.  
  
"Listen to him, Alfonso, they're all the same. Always complaining, nothing is ever good enough for the newsies." The publisher laughed. Race shook his head.  
  
"When was da last time youse starved so some bigshot could grab an extra ten cents from you dat day? I had ta choose, sometimes, between eating and sleeping at home, I didn't have money foah bot! And as foah da rally, yeah, I organized it! Da whole goddamned ting! It woulda gone poifect if youse bums hadn't shown up and almost kicked me side in! Ya almost killed a couple a da kids, some not even ten yeahs old! Just tink, what if dat had made da papes? What would da woild tink a Old' Joe den, eh?" he said, glaring, feeling his blood run hot and then cold.  
  
"See how they disrespect me, Alfonso? They call me Joe, in the streets, these street rats." Race rolled his eyes.  
  
"Well, it's yer name, ain't it?" he crossed his arms and glared at the old man.  
  
'Anthony, if you could please be quiet, we are quite tired of this conversation. Show Mr. Pulitzer that you are a respectful boy, and you do not bring dishonor upon this family. Now apologize." Pulitzer looked at him expectantly. Race glared at him, there was no way in hell he was apologizing, not to this man. This man had killed the spirit of so many of his friends. He knew it and he would not bow to the mountain. He would not allow his voice to be silenced. Instead, he was going to be heard.  
  
"I ain't nevah aploigizin' ta him! Nevah!" he hissed.  
  
"Now Anthony-" his Uncle began before Race lost his temper and told him to do something physical impossible.  
  
There was a stunned silence. His aunt gasped, holding her hand over her heart, as she turned white. His cousins stared at him open mouthed, and Rosie had turned white. His grandmother was watching in with a strange look in her eyes, something he'd never seen before, almost, was that pride? It couldn't be. She couldn't be proud of him, she was not proud of any of her grandchildren. But his Uncle crossed the room and slapped him across the face.  
  
Instantly, Race held up his hands and flinched, the memories too strong, too overpowering. He held his hands over his face, warding off more blows. When they didn't come, he let his arms go.  
  
His Uncle was breathing hard, face red, and he slowly pointed to the door, hand shaking in anger.  
  
"Go to your room and stay there. We will discuss your punishment tomorrow." Race turned and fled.  
  
He slammed his door, and leaned against it panting. His pulse was still racing and he let out a long breath, trying to calm himself. God, in a matter of one day, he had managed to screw up, not once, but twice.  
  
But, by God, he was not going to let anyone tell him what to do anymore! He was sixteen, almost seventeen! And he was not going to let any one get the better of him.  
  
The anger faded as he leaned against the door and his blood slowed. He sighed, suddenly feeling so very tired. He moved towards the bed and collapsed onto it, falling asleep almost instantly. 


	8. Running from What?

Next part is up. And Finals are over! Thank you, GOD! You have no idea how much I have been waiting for this. I need this break! Need! Anyway, here's the story and I'm working on others.  
  
T.H, I am very glad to hear from you, and I really hope you are not dead, because that would just be weird and a little creepy. Anyway, I can't wait till these ideas start coming again, but now my boyfriend is calling, so I must go.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He awoke to hear a strange click in the door, as the knob turned but did not open. Race was across the room in a flash, yanking on the knob and feeling it refuse to turn.  
  
"Let me out!" he yelled, pounding on the door.  
  
"You will stay in there until you learn some manners!" his Uncle's hard voice came to him through the layer of thick dark wood. For an instant, Race stopped hitting his fist against the door. He was too shocked.  
  
They weren't locking him in! They were not! This was not a prison! They had no right to keep him locked away like this! He began to pound on the door harder, yelling at the top of his lungs.  
  
"Let me out! Ya can't do dis! Ya ain't got no right! Let me out!"  
  
"If you are loud and uncooperative, you will stay in there longer." Race paused, frowning. Then he backed away, letting go, until he heard his Uncle walk away. Then he took a running leap and leapt against the door, throwing all of his light weight against it. The door held, but he did it again, yelling this time.  
  
He pounding on the door, hitting, kicking, pulling, shouting, until his voice was hoarse and he lacked the strength to stand. Instead, he slumped on the floor next to his bed and sighed.  
  
He closed his eyes and laid his head back, feeling helpless and alone. He had lost his friends today, and he had lost his family today as well. They would never look on him as one of them. He would always be that "charity case, that street rat, the boy who would never be like us," that was all.  
  
He glanced outside and saw that it was dark. The sun had set while he attacked the door and he had no light. The light switch was next to the door, but he lacked the energy to get up and turn it on.  
  
As he closed his eyes again, he heard the click in the door and his grandmother entered, holding a plate of soup. She frowned at the darkness and turned on the light, eyeing him sitting on the floor. She set the bowl down on the table and went to him, helping him to his feet. She led him to the desk and handed him a spoon.  
  
"Eat." He dropped it and looked mournfully at the food before him. Any appetite he might have had was gone, and he only stared at the food. She put the spoon back into his hands.  
  
"Eat, for Rosie." She said. That did it, Race took a slow bite, not tasting, only swallowing. But at least he was eating. She sighed and touched his hair, just as his Uncle walked by.  
  
"Mother, leave the boy be." He ordered, walking in for a moment with his keys in his hands. He latched the window and locked it. Race had no reaction, only sipping his soup. Then he motioned for her to leave and she did so, glancing back at the boy as her son closed and locked the door again.  
  
"You will leave the boy alone, mother." He hissed. "He needs to be taught a lesson." She glared at her son, wishing to God her daughter had lived.  
  
"You are teaching him the same thing his father did." She said, and swept off to her own room, leaving her confused son in her wake.  
  
  
  
  
  
The warm weather faded and the cold air came from the north, causing people to pull their winter coats from the back of their closets, and go about, bundled in scarves and hats, chins pressed firmly against heir chests in attempts to block out the cold.  
  
The first frost came before the door was unlocked, and even then, Race was allowed only to eat in the kitchen, with no contact to the other children, only with the lower servants. Race cared little, keeping his temper that he had never lost, and fighting at any opportunity, perhaps wishing his Uncle would make good his threat and throw him out into the street. But perhaps the old man sensed that was what Race wanted and refused, saying his mother would never allow it.  
  
He could not understand the bond that was growing between them, though he tried to stop it. Forbidding him to even speak to anyone, forbidding them to speak to him, and yet still she defied him. but she was his mother and there was little he could do. He still honored her. For traditions sake, if not his own.  
  
Race closed his eyes that night, not wanting to see the cold white prison walls anymore. His world had gone from endless freedom on the streets to these four walls. Spot had been right, this place was a prison. He should have stayed, should have never left the lodging house, should have been happy where he was, Rosie was happy.  
  
He sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in the stale smell of the sheets. What he wouldn't give for a breath of fresh air, but the windows were shut, locked, and bordered.  
  
"Anthony," he looked up to see his grandmother, silhouetted in the doorway, holding tonight's supper, a roll and a small plate of pasta. He sighed and dropped his head again.  
  
"Anthony, get up, eat something. You're worrying Rosie." Race sighed and took the roll, leaving the pasta. His appetite had dwindled in the past few months, leaving him as thin as before.  
  
His grandmother sat on his bed and eyed him. He didn't look at her, feeling tired and sore, even though he'd done nothing, but stare at the ceiling for most of the day.  
  
"You are not happy here." It was not a question. Race sighed.  
  
"Are ye?" he asked, looking at her for the first time. She frowned. "Ya know, at least wid me Pop, I could leave, go an play in da streets wid Jack or Spot. At least den, I could get away. I ain't even seen da sky in weeks." He looked at the barred windows as if one glance at the sky might make all the difference. And she made a choice.  
  
"Anthony, if you could leave, would you?" Race nodded.  
  
"In a second." She frowned.  
  
"And Rosie?" he paused. Then he bit his lip.  
  
"I'd leave her." He said after a long minute, "Leave her heah. She's got all she needs, a warm bed, food, a roof ovah her head, what moah could she want?"  
  
"What about you?" she asked, wondering how the child would take it if her brother left her in this place.  
  
"What about me?" he asked, shrugging as if his own existence had been an afterthought his whole life.  
  
"Do you think she would miss you?" he shrugged again.  
  
"Don't madda, she's gonna have all da tings I can't. Food, money, an education. She don't gotta keep goin' back ta da races, trying' ta keep up wid da monthly bills.' He stared at her. "Didcha know dat's how I kept her in dat place? It costed money, foah bucks a month, and I couldn't make dat by bein' a newsie, not wid me own lodgin' and food. So I went ta da races and I made bets, I played pokah and I had moah luck dere, but dat's how I did it. Nobody knows dat. Me friends, dey jist thought I liked ta gamble, but it was foah her."  
  
His voice was soft and tender as he thought of his sister. She sighed and pulled him close. He clung to her and she couldn't believe that three months ago, she had not been aware this kind, sweet boy, who had been hurt so much that he was forced to hide that boy inside, even existed. And she could not believe that only two months ago, she had hated the sight of him. Now she held him close.  
  
"Anthony, listen to me." she said, as she stroked his hair. A sigh showed he was listening, "do something for yourself for a change. Leave this place, go back to where you were if it makes you happy. Take care of yourself for once in your life. Do what you want." Race stared at her as if the concept of doing things for himself, and not for his sister was completely alien to him.  
  
"Do not make me repeat myself. " she said, getting up, " You do what you feel is right, is that understood?" Race nodded slowly. She reached out and touched his shaggy black hair, caressing it softly, and whispered something, something Race remembered from so long ago. "Maggio Dio va con tu." It was almost like a blessing. Maybe, somewhere deep inside him, he knew it was.  
  
"Pack your things and give them to me." she told him, quickly, keeping her voice down. Race nodded and hurried around the room, ripping the pillow case off of one of the pillows and stuffing his belongings into it, his clothes, the rare book, and the few other knick-knacks he owned, like the harmonica his father had given him, the only present the man had ever given his son, aside from the rare trips to the tracks. His most valuable possessions, he'd thrown at Jack, that day so long ago.  
  
He winced as he thought of the gold watch, given to him by his mother, the pack of cards, Jack had given him when his father had taken his old pack away, and his cigars, he longed for just one. But that was forbidden, how dare he even think of taking one of his Uncle's cigars? And yet, he longed for something to smoke, something to roll between his fingers and calm him down.  
  
When he had everything, which wasn't much, his grandmother kissed his head and took it. "When you go down for dinner, slip out the back door. There, behind the trash cans, I will leave your bag and a small bag of food." Race nodded and she slipped out the door.  
  
It seemed like forever before the door was unlocked again, and his Uncle glared down at him, standing his arms crossed.  
  
"Get down to the table and you mind your manners." He said harshly. Race frowned as he hurried downstairs and made to go into the kitchens. His Uncle took his shoulder and steered him into the dining room.  
  
He shook his head, no, this wasn't right! He'd never get away now! But he was forced into the chair and told to stay there. He did so, not looking up from his plate the whole time. He ate as much as he could, knowing he would need it later. His aunt commented on his appetite and he shrugged.  
  
After he had finished, he politely asked to be excused and his Uncle nodded. Race was up in a flash running down the hall and through the kitchens, to the surprise of the cook and the housemaids, and snatched his bags off the ground as he threw the back door open, not even slowing down. He slung them over his shoulders and took a running leap at the fence.  
  
His old habits won out and he cleared the fence, suddenly finding himself in a dirty alley, eyeing the carriage house where the horses were kept. He thought about taking one, but decided against it, more trouble than he needed.  
  
He could hear voices being shouted behind him, his uncles, and the cook. And he took off, running down the street, dodging people and horses as he ran. He knew which was to go and was headed south, towards lower Manhattan.  
  
Once he got to Central Park, he knew he was safe. He slowed to a fast walk, chest still heaving from his run, and took in his surroundings. He was thinly dressed, with no coat, even in the early winter chill. He shivered and pulled his shirt closer.  
  
As he walked, and the sun set, he grew colder. He knew he had to find a place to sleep and the park was as good as any. He looked around. Not a bench, too open, too unsafe.  
  
He soon found a small thicket, just off the path that would do well. There he sat down and rummaged in his bag. He found a small loaf of bread, a lump of cheese and three decent sized apples, along with a tin of coffee, cooling now, and some water. There was a small knife, and some matches, along with three cigarettes.  
  
Race grinned at the cigarettes. They weren't cigars, but they were close. But he couldn't light them now, not here in the dark. It would be a waste of matches and someone might see him.  
  
And there was something else. He reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out a long beaded chain. There were several beads, all in the same order, repeating themselves. He knew what it was.  
  
He hadn't seen one in years, much less used one. It was a rosary, with beautiful red beads, each one glimmering in the setting sunlight. For an instant, he only stared. Then he closed his eyes, and knelt, intertwining the piece of jewelry in between his fingers, and the words fell from his lips, hesitant at first, much like the language of his mother had before, and then they came from, unbidden by memory.  
  
"Hail Mary, Full of grace, Da Lord is wid dee. Blessed art Dou among women, and blessed is da fruit a dy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mudda a God, pray foah us sinnah's now, and at de hour of death.  Amen." His prayer came next, silent this time as he closed his eyes, speaking to someone he hadn't spoken to in a long time. It felt like coming home.  
  
Maybe She was listening that night, maybe She could take a moment to listen to the prayer of a sixteen year old street rat who had never asked Her or Her Son for anything in his life, but he asked now. For the first time, he asked for something for himself, not his mother, not his sister, but for himself.  
  
"Please, Mary, lemme go home."  
  
Maybe no one was listening to him that night, but he needed to say it, and he did, closing his eyes tight and wrapping the rosary in his hands. Maybe no one was listening, but himself. But as the stars twinkled at him, he knew someone heard him. Maybe it was Mary, mother of God, but maybe it was Maria who whispered soft words of comfort on the wind that night.  
  
Here, in this small thicket, a boy made his peace with the Powers That Be, and slept peacefully for the first night in many years. 


	9. Where is home?

The morning sun awoke him, as did the chill in the air. Race shivered violently, but gathered his things, after checking to make sure they were all there, and set off. The city was awakening, and Race knew he had to get out of the area, heading towards the less decent parts of the city.  
  
As he walked, he thought of his options. He couldn't go to the lower East side, too many old memories. He couldn't go to Brooklyn, Spot would know in an instant. Not the Bronx, he couldn't go back, that was where he had come from. Queens, maybe, Richmond Island, maybe. He'd heard they were thinking of renaming it anyway. Then of course, there was always, leave New York.  
  
But he couldn't' do that. New York was his home, it had always been. He'd been born in Naples, true, but he'd come to New York as a bright eyed, curious four year old. And he had been here ever since.  
  
He sighed and decided that the best thing to do was to keep walking. Didn't matter where he went as long as he kept walking. He looked at the ground, and took the first step, moving his feet forward. He did not look back; keeping his gaze ahead at the crowd of people he was pushing his way through.  
  
He adopted the cold air of someone who knew the city and knew his way around. Some one who was not to be messed with. And the others took that hint, no one bothered him, no one stopped him. No one, but one person.  
  
Race bumped into someone as he walked, and he felt swift hands sneak into his pockets. Being an experienced pickpocket himself, he reached down with faster fingers and grabbed the deft fingers before they could leave. He spun around, prepared to give the child a piece of his mind when he stopped. The boy was one he knew quite well, David's little brother, Les.  
  
"Race?" he asked, staring in wonder at his older friend. Race dropped his hand and glanced up. Where Les was, Jack or David wasn't far behind. Sure enough, both boys were now hurrying down the street.  
  
Race felt frozen for an instant as he made eye contact with the blue eyes of his old friend. Jack's mouth dropped and he paused, only a few feet away. Race took that opportunely to flee.  
  
He spun on his heels, and took off in a full out run. He could hear Jack and David calling to him, but he flew down the street, going at top speed. They were chasing him, he was sure, but he did not turn around to check.  
  
He dove into a deserted alley and looked around. He could hear them coming and he grabbed the fire escape, climbing up it experiencedly. He pulled himself up onto the roof and ran across the rooftop to the door. Then, he made his way down the stairs, coming out in a back alley.  
  
From there, he turned into the main street and headed off, towards the upper part of the city once again.  
  
Jack was not chasing him anymore and Race slowed down, letting himself stop to rest on a doorstep to catch his breath. Why had he run? He didn't know, but he didn't want to go back and have the others give him that I told you so look, along with the cold glances and stone hearts that were sure to meet him, the polite but cold greetings and the exclusion from everything. He didn't want it. He didn't want them to know that he had been wrong.  
  
That night he slept in an alleyway, guarding his precious food against rats, both animal and human.  
  
By the time the snow fell, Race had lost track of the days in which he'd lived on the streets. His supply of food was long gone and he wandered the streets, his shirt pulled tight against him, rummaging through garbage pails for food.  
  
He knew which place to go, he knew which place handed their food out to beggars, he knew when the nuns were open for business, and he knew where to sleep. He'd sold the satin pillowcase, and traded it for an old burlap sack he'd found. It had bought him a few days food.  
  
He had no money, and his stomach rumbled all the time. He wandered, as if lost, which he was sure he was. His fingers were numb and he had long ago lost any feeling in his toes.  
  
He could hardly remember what it was like to be warm, he thought, as he made his way through the streets, kicking the snow as he went, lacking the energy to lift his feet. To be warm, in front of a fire, with his friends all around him. He could hardly remember what it was like to have food.  
  
When had he last eaten? He couldn't remember. There had been that apple, stolen yesterday, or was that the day before? He shook his head, trying to shake some of the snow from his hair, and failing.  
  
The world was white, all white in the falling snow, and he only saw the sidewalk as he trudged forward, his arms around himself, trying to keep some warmth, however little he could find.  
  
He was tired, he thought, so very tired. He had no energy, none, and there was a darkness that kept creeping up on him, fading his sight until he could see nothing. It came and went as he stumbled along, outlining his line of sight.  
  
He stumbled, almost falling into the snow. He threw his hands out to catch himself and he did so. He lay there, on his hands and knees, breathing deeply for a moment, feeling so strangely weak.  
  
The cold air bit into his cheeks, drawing the air from him in frightingly deep gasps. The snow that touched his hands and knees sank into his skin, chilling him to the bone. He winced as the wind picked up and managed to pull himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his legs and pulling them in tight to his chest, trying to do anything to block the cold.  
  
He curled up on the doorstep, and leaned his back against cold wood. He held himself tight, trying to reserve what little heat he could find. The cold building behind him did give off a little from the warmth inside.  
  
Race took a deep shuddering breath, wishing for the first time since he was nine years old, for his mother. He wanted her to take him in her arms, and whisper that things were going to be alright. That he was her little baby, and he didn't have to be a man just yet. He was still only a boy, just a boy, who was forced to grow up far too fast.  
  
From somewhere in the distance, Race heard singing. Singing a song that seemed so familiar, so perfect. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't make out the words.  
  
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,  
  
The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.  
  
The stars in the sky looked down where he lay,  
  
The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay."  
  
Race stumbled to his feet and began to follow the music, not knowing where it might lead him, but he knew that he needed to be warm. And where there was singing there were people.  
  
"The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,  
  
But little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.  
  
I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky  
  
And stay by my cradle til morning is nigh."  
  
But there was something else that drew him towards the music, something he couldn't explain. He knew that he would be welcomed there, he knew that was home. His fevered brain was too numb, too cold to ask why, but in his heart he knew they were singing for him.  
  
"Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay  
  
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.  
  
Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,  
  
And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there."  
  
He stumbled down a side street, now blinded by snow, following the sound of the music, and wanting nothing more than to sing along. He made his way along, straining for the last few strands of the music before he fell to the blackness that was struggling against him.  
  
But it was almost too much to ask. The music was gone and Race was alone again. His cold numb fingers grasped at his coat, pulling it tighter, as he sunk down on a doorstep, suddenly feeling so cold and so alone.  
  
He closed his eyes, and tried once more to hear the angelic music that had called him home. But it had faded into the whiteness of the night, leaving him alone once more in the silence.  
  
And there, in the snow covered streets, all alone, Racetrack fell asleep, not knowing, that it was Christmas Eve, not knowing that in two very different worlds, there were people who were looking out their windows a and begging him to come home. One old woman who knelt before her bed, her rosary in hand, one child who knelt beside her, her lips moving quickly in prayer for her brother, and one boy, one boy who was really a man, who stood at the window and stared into the blinding storm, not knowing that the brother he sought was so much closer than he thought. 


	10. Home?

Here you go, very short chapter, but I'll update soon. The next part is longer, sorry. Summer vacation! Yay!  
  
  
  
Christmas Morning dawned sunny as the newsies struggled to an extra five minutes of sleep before the little ones dragged them out of bed and pulled them downstairs to see what Father Christmas had brought this year.  
  
Jack looked out the window into a world of white. The storm of last night had coated the city in a blanket of white pure snow. Not for the first time, he was glad there was no Christmas edition, though they would have to be out in that the next day. He sighed and made his way downstairs.  
  
The others weren't up yet, but the old manager was used to seeing Jack up early on Christmas almost every year. He smiled at Jack and turned back to the stove where something delicious was stirring. Kloppman, for all his faults, genuinely loved his boys, and was a decent cook as well.  
  
"Mornin' Cowboy." He said. Jack smiled and sat down at the table. "Hey, do you tink ya could run down ta da Jacobs's and fetch a few eggs?" Kloppman asked. Jack sighed and nodded, looking forward to seeing Sarah anyway.  
  
"Surah ting, okay if I invite Davy and Les ta dinner?" Kloppman nodded and turned back to his stirring as Jack went upstairs to grab his coat. The others were waking up, and various Christmas greetings were shouted at him. Jack smiled and grabbed his coat, which someone had hung up on the peg beside Blink's bed, the one he always tried not to look at.  
  
But he did, he looked at the empty bed, the sheets pulled back as if someone were just waiting to climb into them. He had refused to give it away, even though Race had left almost four months ago.  
  
He sighed, had it been that long? Almost two months since he'd seen him on the street, almost four since they'd had that fight. He still had the watch, tucked away in his own pocket. he was keeping it safe, though for what, he didn't know.  
  
He sighed and made his way downstairs, grinning at the little ones as they attacked the tree. Then he pulled open the door, wincing at the ice- cold air, and promptly fell over into the snow.  
  
He picked his head up and spit out the snow, glaring over his shoulder at his friends who laughed. Then he saw what he had tripped over. A boy was sitting on the doorstep, his arms wrapped around his legs, his head covered by a black cabby hat, pulled low.  
  
Jack frowned and moved to touch him. The boy's shoulder was like ice. He pushed back the boy's cap and jumped back, horrified at what he saw.  
  
It was Race. Race with his face slightly bluish, his cheek bruised, his lips chapped and split from the dry icy air. Race with frost on his jacket, his light summer jacket, and the look of death in his cold frozen face.  
  
Jack shook him and Race only fell limp, shivering still. The slight movement gave Jack hope and he pulled the boy to his feet, dragging him inside.  
  
Inside, everyone looked up in horror as Jack dragged Race inside and instantly began stripping the frozen clothes off his friend. Kloppman moved forward and took the boy, instantly ordering the other boys into preparing to help their frozen friend.  
  
"Mush, go and get all da blankets ya can find. Jack, get morah wood foah da fiah. Blink, hot wauda." The boys hurried off and the others crowded around as Kloppman finished what Jack had started.  
  
Mush was back first and Race was instantly swathed in ten or twelve blankets. Jack was next and they laid Race next to the fire, building it high. Then came Blink, totting a bowl of hot water and a cloth, which Kloppman rubbed across Race's forehead, in an attempts to kill the fever that ravaged the boy's body.  
  
Jack cradled him, rocking him slightly. Race didn't move, only shivering in the warm air, but soon, even that stopped. Jack sighed, he'd looked everywhere for Race and he had found him, as he lay dying on his doorstep.  
  
The other boys gathered around, talking softly or only sitting in silence. No one said a word to Jack, and they knew he wouldn't hear them anyway. 


	11. Remember?

*************************  
  
"You see that, Anthony? That's New York, that's our new home." Four-year- old Anthony looked up over the railing of the ferry that was bringing him and his mother to the city.  
  
There, they would see his father for the first time in two years. He would pick his son up and swing him around like he used to. He would take them home to the apartment that would be bigger than their old one had been, back in Naples.  
  
He peered over the railing, standing on his tiptoes, his dark hair blowing on the Bay breeze. He could see a large expanse of wire and steel, stretching across the river. He frowned and narrowed his eyes.  
  
Was this one of the wonders of the New World Mama had told him about? It lined the water, from one side to the other and he could see little tiny people moving on it, if he looked hard enough.  
  
"Mama, what's that?" he asked, pointing. She frowned, obviously not knowing what to call the huge structure in English. And she insisted that her son learn English. She did not mind that he was not speaking it now; he was too excited, too anxious to remember the language of his father.  
  
"Excuse me," she asked a passing sailor, " what is that called?" she pointed to the bridge. The man paused and spotted little Anthony. He knelt by the boy and pointed to the large metal working in from of them.  
  
"Dat's da Brooklyn Bridge, kid. Largest one in da woild." Anthony turned from the interesting man to the bridge, his eyes wide and filled with wonder. The man smiled. " Now look, one of da foist tings ya gotta do in New Yawk, is go out ta da bridge, lean ovah da side and yell. It's one a da best feelin's evah." Then he patted the child's head and went on his way.  
  
Little Anthony still stared at the bridge, until they rounded the curve on the island and he could see it no more. Instead, he saw large buildings and busy streets, carriages and horses, people rushing here and there, and everywhere. And he instantly felt at home.  
  
"New Yawk." He whispered, imitating the sailor. "Mi casa."  
  
"In English, Anthony."  
  
"My home."  
  
  
  
**************************************************************  
  
"Anthony, what did I tell you?" Mama sighed as she took in the sight of her son, his lip bloody and his eye black. But he held his head high and she knew who had come out of the fight a winner.  
  
"Sorry, Mama. But I had ta. He called me a lousy greaser." The boy of only six protested. She sighed. Two years in this country and already, he talked, walked, and acted like he'd been born here. Only at home, when his father was gone, did they speak Italian.  
  
"Am I to assume that Frankie went home to his mother in the same state?" she asked, referring to the boy downstairs and her son's best friend in the whole world. Anthony nodded and she went about cleaning him up.  
  
Just as she dipped the warm rag into the water, a cry came from the other room and Mama sighed. She replaced the cloth on his eye and got to her feet.  
  
"You keep that there, alright?" he nodded. Then she hurried into the other room to comfort the new baby. Anthony sighed and held the cloth to his sore eye. He wished it could go back to the time when it was only Mama, and Papa, and him. When Papa would take him down to the races just for the evening, and they would watch the races, laughing and cheering, and sneak home.  
  
Just then, Papa walked in, throwing his hat down on the table. He spied his son and sighed.  
  
"Whudcha do dis time?" he asked, eyeing his son's beaten face.  
  
"He called me a lousy greasa, Papa. I had to." Papa frowned and sat down, running his fingers through his dark red hair. Mama came out of the bedroom, the baby in her arms.  
  
"Owen." She said, bending down to kiss him. Papa did not smile or kiss her back. "What's wrong?" he sighed.  
  
"I lost me job taday, Maria. Dey fired me." Anthony frowned, not knowing what that meant. But Mama did. She gasped and put her free hand over her mouth.  
  
"Fired you? Why?" he shrugged.  
  
"Said dey was cuttin' back, and dey didn't need me no more." His father seemed so sad, Anthony didn't know what to do.  
  
"Don't worry Papa. You'll get a new job." He said, trying to make his father smile at him again. Instead, his father stared at him, almost as if he'd never seen him before in his life. And then he got to his feet and stumbled out.  
  
"Owen! Where are you going?" Mama called. Papa didn't answer as he hurried out into the street.  
  
It was late when he came home. Far too late for Anthony to be up, but he was. Mama was sitting at the table, rocking the baby, and Anthony was seated at the table, doing his homework his mother had set out for him.  
  
Papa came stumbling in, his footsteps uneven, his words slurred. Mama got to her feet.  
  
"Owen Higgins, where have you been? I've been so worried!" he glared at her.  
  
"Don't you sass me, woman!" he growled. She frowned.  
  
"I'm not, Owen. I just want to know where you've been." Anthony frowned. He'd seen Mr. Sullivan act like this, all slow and angry. He did that when he hit Frankie, and Jamie. And he did it in front of Anthony, not even worried about what the boy might say. He'd gone as far as to threaten his son's friend before, but he'd never hit him.  
  
But it was his own father that hit his mother this time. He slapped her full across the face, making her cry out and stumble. Anthony raced to her side and was instantly shoved away.  
  
Mama dropped the baby and Anthony held onto her, rocking her gently as Papa kicked out at Mama. Mama cried out, and Anthony wanted to cry too from the cries of pain that were coming from Mama, and the words of hate that streamed from Papa's lips.  
  
He rocked the baby, ignoring the pain in his own head as he shut his eyes and tried to shut his ears. It was the first time his father had hit him. It would not be the last.  
  
**********************************************  
  
Anthony spent the night at Frankie's apartment one night. He was so very frightened to go home and Mrs. Sullivan did her best to take care of her friend's son. She knew all too well what her friend was going through. Back before her husband's arrest, she had gone through it too. Now she was left with her two sons to raise alone.  
  
Mama had gone to work at the factory soon after Papa had gotten fired. They needed the money, and all they had was quickly being used up by Papa with his drink. Mama was working that night and Anthony was afraid to go home.  
  
He curled up next to Frankie on the bed and was about to fall asleep when there came a knock on the door.  
  
Mrs. Sullivan opened it and was startled to see Owen Higgins.  
  
"My son, where is he?" she motioned inside. Papa grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him upstairs, ignoring his cries of pain.  
  
"You lazy little brat!" he hollered, tossing Anthony inside and slamming the door behind him. He punched Anthony, sending him to the floor when the boy tried to explain.  
  
"I don't wanna heah none a yer excuses!" he shouted, slamming Anthony's head into the table corner, causing him to cry out. He kicked at the boy and slapped him until Anthony was a small ball, curled up on the floor to get away from the painful blows and words of the man who had once called himself father.  
  
From the bedroom, Rosie cried and his father growled.  
  
"Make dat brat stop cryin'!" Anthony painfully uncurled himself and got to his feet, wincing. He pulled the little one-year old baby into his arms and held her tight. Papa only glared at him, then stormed out of the apartment again.  
  
Anthony held his little sister close, rocking her as the tears fell. She leaned up and kissed his cheek, wrapping her small pudgy arms around his neck as he cried.  
  
****************************************  
  
"Papa?" Anthony rubbed his eyes? But wasn't his father. It was his mother, coming home tired and dirty from the factory. She dropped into a chair by the table and laid her head down on the table.  
  
Anthony stepped up and poured her a glass of water. She took it gratefully.  
  
"Thank you, baby." She said, sighing and sitting back. Then she looked around, frowning.  
  
"Where's your Papa?" Anthony shrugged, trying to move so that his dark bangs covered the bruise on his cheek, but Mama saw. Mama always saw.  
  
"Oh, Tony. Did he hit you again?" Anthony nodded. She held out her hands and he ran into them.  
  
"Love you, Mama.' He whispered. She nodded.  
  
Papa didn't come home that night. In fact, they never saw or heard from him again. And money became tighter. The landlord raised the rent, the owners at the factory lowered the wages. And Anthony was forced to spend more time alone with his little sister.  
  
Mama had to work, that was all there was, and she refused to let him work.  
  
"Someday you'll be a man, Tony. Stay my little boy for a little while more." He was to grow up far quicker than she or anyone else might have wished.  
  
****************************************  
  
  
  
  
  
Anthony laughed as Frankie tripped, then began to laugh too. The boys were playing tag on the street in front of their apartment house. Two-year old Rosie and six year old Jamie were sitting on the steps, laughing at their brothers.  
  
Anthony glanced up at the first siren, then frowned as another joined the first one and the two friends watched as the fire engines, drawn by two white horses, rushed past them to the cause of the fire.  
  
At first they didn't think much of it. Fires were common in these crowded cramped tenements and they always saw them. But today, it felt different. People were running and shouting. Someone mentioned a factory.  
  
Anthony scoped up Rosie and began to run. He knew Frankie had done the same and was right behind him. He followed the noise to a crowd, two streets over. There in front of him, was the factory in which both their mothers worked, and it was on fire.  
  
No, it was no longer on fire. It was a giant inferno, consuming everything around it. Women were still stumbling through the gates, coughing, covering in soot and ash. But neither mother was among them.  
  
Anthony put Rosie down and stared, his heart in his throat. Then he began to run, dodging firemen until he had almost run straight into the blaze. A man stopped him, dragging him backwards, back to Frankie, back to Rosie. All the while, Anthony was crying.  
  
Rosie wrapped her arms around him and he held her tight, rocking her tight. She didn't know why he was so upset, but she knew she didn't like the fire and the people and the noise.  
  
Anthony held her tight, not looking at the fire, not wanting to hear the crackle of the flames and the shouting as people struggled to put it out. He knew his Mama was in those flames. And he knew she wasn't coming out.  
  
  
  
**********************************  
  
Anthony took a deep breath, then began to dig. He leaned his eight-year- old frame over the garbage can and tried not to think of what exactly he was digging through. Instead, he pawed his way through old newspapers and cans until he found a half eaten roll and a rotten apple.  
  
Both he handed to his little sister, who tucked them into her skirts. Then he moved on, this time, finding more luck with a trash can just outside a restaurant. As a few wealthy patrons exited, he pushed his sister forward.  
  
"Please mista, I ain't had nuttin ta eat, me sistah, she's starvin'. Please?" he begged, keeping Rosie behind him in case the man decided to kick out like they did so often.  
  
The man frowned and moved to turn away, but the woman stopped him. "Oh, Albert. Look at the poor dears, give them something." Anthony clenched his teeth. He hated begging, hated it more than anything in the world. But he had to feed Rosie, he had to. And digging through trashcans was hardly enough for her. He took the nickel the man offered and thanked him, darting away.  
  
He took in the rather large crowd in the street and ducked into an alley, telling Rosie to stay there. He needed more money, a nickel, roll and a rotten apple were hardly enough food. Besides, it was almost time to move on to another street, another area.  
  
He slipped into the crowd and spotted an open pocket, perfect. He wound his way through the crowd and managed to slip his hands into the man's pocket. He found the wallet easily and pulled it out, moving backwards into the crowd. The man didn't even stop.  
  
Anthony moved back into the alley and dug into the wallet. Inside were a dollar and forty cents. Enough. He put the money into his own bag, his bag that held all his possessions in the world, his harmonica his father had given him, his gold watch Mama had given to him when they left Naples, the cards Frankie had given to him just before the fire, and the little money he had.  
  
He took Rosie's hand and led her off into the street. He sighed as the sun dipped behind the buildings. He needed to find someplace to sleep tonight, someplace a little more comfortable than that alley they'd been using for the past week. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.  
  
"Extry! Extry!" the newsboy's voice echoed through the street. And there was something familiar about it. Anthony shrugged it off and pulled Rosie off, but she struggled against him, pulling in the other direction.  
  
"Rosie!"  
  
"Tony!" she shouted, her hand wrenched from his as the crowd surged forward, separating them. Anthony fought the tide and pushed through the crowd, calling his sister's name. Suddenly there was a clearing and he went for it, finding himself so very alone.  
  
"Rosie!" he called again. She didn't answer him. He hurried around, shouting for her, and pleading with God to let her be alright.  
  
"Tony!" he spun around just in time for his little sister to hurl herself into his arms. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight.  
  
"Tony?" the voice was different. Anthony looked up and his jaw dropped. It was the newsie from before. The newsie who looked very familiar.  
  
"Frankie?" he launched himself at his old friend, who laughed and patted his friend on the back.  
  
"Where ya been, Higgins?" he asked, still laughing. Anthony frowned and shrugged.  
  
"I been around." Frankie looked him up and down and frowned.  
  
"Ya don't look so good, Tony. Ya been eatin'?" Anthony nodded, but Frankie could tell he was lying.  
  
"Look, why don'tcha come wid me? Ya can be a newsie." Anthony frowned. A newsie? Did they make good money? He sighed, anything was better than these streets. Anything. He nodded and turned to follow his friend.  
  
"Oh, and Tony? It's Jack now. Jack Kelly."  
  
  
  
************************  
  
  
  
"Jack?" David's voice was the first to speak in hours. Jack glanced up from Race's bunk where they had put the boy after his fever broke. He was no longer mumbling incoherently, or worse, calling out the names of those long passed. Instead, Race slept, and Jack did not leave his side.  
  
"Yeah, Dave?"  
  
"Brought you something." He held out the roll, which Jack took gratefully.  
  
"Tanks." He mumbled, eating it slowly. David sighed as he watched Jack glance at the sleeping Race.  
  
"So how's he doing?" Jack shrugged.  
  
"Bedda, not callin' out no morah. He's sleepin now." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.  
  
"What I want to know is, why was Race wandering around on Christmas eve, looking half starved when he had a home?" Jack shook his head.  
  
"I dunno. I tawked ta some kids from uptown and dey said Race ain't been dere foah months."  
  
"What do you mean? You think he ran away?" Jack nodded.  
  
"I do. I tink he couldn't take it dere no morah and he ran away." David sighed and looked at his sleeping friend. Race's face was still pale, still thin and hollow, his cheeks sunken in and still flushed from the fever.  
  
"But if he ran away, why didn't he come home?" Jack didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. It was his fault Race was in this condition. If he had kept his temper that day, Race would have known that he could come home.  
  
"Cause, Dave, he didn't' tink he'd be welcome heah." He took a deep breath and smoothed the hair out of Race's eyes, checking his forehead for signs of fever. David swallowed hard. 


	12. Home, no question about it

You know what? I am soooo sorry! I forgot I was even posting this story, I thought I had finished. I am sorry again, so here it is. Now this is the last part. I am sort of working on another story, combined with my biggest longest story, a HP story called My name is Sirius Black, which I want to finish soon. When I get that done, I'll take a look at the one I was working on, something about Jack and Race and the Titanic, I dunno. Well, I'll cya. Sorry again!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Race opened his eyes to a bright light. He groaned and reached up to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Race?" he frowned. That sounded like Jack's voice. But it couldn't be. He blinked, eyes adjusting and swallowed hard at what he saw. He was back in his old bunk, several blankets wrapped around him. He sighed and glanced around. He frowned when he saw Jack's worried face, peering down at him. What was he doing here? The last thing he remembered was that numbing icy cold. How did he get back in his old home. "Jack?" he asked, and was surprised to find his voice scratchy and hoarse. Jack shook his head and held up a mug for him to drink out of. "Sh, don'tcha tawk. Ya need yer rest. Kloppman's ordahs." Race nodded. "Where am I?" he asked, glancing around, still not sure. "Youse home, Race. Home." Jack said, smiling. Race relaxed into the blankets, Home. He was home.  
  
  
  
  
  
Three days passed before Race was allowed out of bed, and even then, the short trip to the washroom, or downstairs tired him out quickly. He longed for his old resilience back, but Jack refused to let him go outside in the cold winter air. "Ya'll jist get sick again, and I ain't dealin' wid dat again." Were his orders and Race followed them. Three more weeks and a break of warmer weather allowed Race to journey outside for the first time, to take a short walk, Jack, Blink, and Mush at his side. They walked around the block, ready to stop when Race felt weak or to go on when he felt strong. Once, they stood on the street corner for almost an hour before Race wanted to go in. And now, six weeks later, he was finally allowed the sell again. Jack was with him, of course, but he was a block away and Race had found himself on his old corner for the first time in months. He took a deep breath and began to shout. "Extry! Extry! Firah in tenant housing! Hundreds presumed dead!" True, the fire had been in an old tenement and several roaches had been killed, no humans though. It didn't' matter, he was back where he belonged. Race grinned as the old man bought the story and the paper, handing him a nickel and telling him to "keep the change." "Tanks mista." Race replied, tipping his hat. He began yelling again, letting his voice rebound off the stone walls, fighting with Jack's down the street.  
  
As the sun made it's journey across the sky, Race's papers vanished and his money accumulated. He grinned, lighting a cigarette and praying Jack wouldn't see. He had refused to let Race have his cigars as the doctor told him they bothered his lungs. But right now, he didn't care. He had made his peace with Jack a few weeks before, and with Spot only last week. Jack had called him a fool and an idiot for not recognizing his real family when he'd had them almost all his life. Then he'd given Race a hug and handed him his mother's pocket watch. Race had slipped it into his pocket, relaxing at its comforting weight, as if it knew it belonged there. And Race know knew where he belonged. In the days he'd been confined to bed, every day, Blink, Mush, Jack, David, and all the others had crowded around him, telling him stories, playing cards with him, or just sitting with him, talking to him about anything and everything. Though he'd hardly had enough energy to speak half the time, he'd never felt better. And now he was back in his element, crying out the headlines as loud as he could, making a penny a pape. Someone bumped into him and Race turned to glare at them. To his surprise and possibly, horror, it was his cousin Margherita. She stared at him in shock. "Buy a pape, Miss?" Race asked, grinning at her. She only shook her head and turned away, running back towards her home. Race decided it was time to quit and he quickly sold his last ten papers by conjuring up the strangest headline he could think of, man-eating trout attack president on upstate trip, and dashing away.  
  
But by the afternoon, he was back. No Sheepshead today, he needed to save up, make up for those months and weeks of not selling. This time there had been an actual accident, so he was saved from the trouble of making up a headline. "Extry, extry!" he shouted, letting his voice carry over the crowd. Suddenly, a hand was placed on his shoulder and he spun around. It was his grandmother, who smiled down at him. When a small blur of a girl wrapped her arms around his legs, Race laughed because he knew it was Rosie. "Hello, Anthony." Race smiled. "Aftanoon." He said, tipping his hat to her. Out of the corner of his eye, Race saw Jack head towards them. "Wouldcha like a pape, Miss?" Race asked. His grandmother smiled. "Yes, how much are they, young man?" he shrugged. "Usually a penny, but if ya could spare some change, Miss? I gots a little sista at home and she needs me." He placed his sad puppy dog eyes on her and she laughed. So did Rosie, she had seen him pull that one far too many times. "Well, here is a dime." She said, placing said coin in his hands. Race grinned. "Tell me, young man, are you happy?" she asked. Race nodded. "Morah den I'se evah been." Rosie smiled at him. "I want to be as happy as you. Ya tink I could be, if I went back to what we were before?" Race frowned. Forgetting the charade of not knowing each other, he bent down in front of his little sister. "Ya aint' happy?" she shook her head. "Nah, too many rules. Dey don't love me like youse did. Uncle Alfonso would nevah go widout food foah a night jist so'se I could." Race blushed slightly. And he nodded. "Ya wanna go back ta da girls home?" she shook her head. "I wanna live wid you." Race sighed and thought. Kloppman usually said no girls, but he loved this little one, he did. And he might make an exception for her. He nodded and she threw her arms around him. When Race let her go, he was surprised to see that they were alone. The old woman had walked away, leaving them to each other.  
  
But she hadn't really walked away. She was watching. Watching as Race hugged the little girl, watching as the tall blond boy with the cowboy hat came up to them and pulled Rosie into a tight hug. She watched as the boy put his arm around Race and the three headed off. And she knew that he was truly happy. "Oh Maria," she sighed. "You would be so proud of him, he is strong, he is loving, his friends are the best in the world. He takes such good care of little Rosie. You would be proud of him, Maria, for he is happy." And the wind blew, snatching the cap off Race's head and sending him, Jack and Rosie chasing it, laughing. And that night, as he lay in his bunk, his tiny sister beside him, Race heard the whisper of the wind, singing a lullaby of so long ago. "Buona notte, Mama." He whispered before closing his eyes, and sleeping at last. 


End file.
